 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

MAP: The Murray-Darling Basin

Disclaimer

First bit

Part 1: 1976 - The Macquarie Marshes and the Barwon River

MAP: The Macquarie Marshes

Part 2: 1977 - The Darling River

Part 3: 1977 - The Great AnaBranch of the Darling River

Part 4: 1977 - Melbourne

Part 5: 1978 - The Macquarie Marshes

Epilogue

Acknowledgements
**DRIFTING  
down the  
DARLING**

Tony Pritchard

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd PO BOX 147 Hazelbrook NSW 2779

http://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2015 © Tony Pritchard

All rights reserved

Cover image © Tony Pritchard

Cover design by Peter Harris

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# The Murray-Darling Basin

**Disclaimer**

This book is my version of experiences before, during and after drifting down the Darling River and my recollections are relatively factual. I have made a huge effort to make contact with those I met, or their descendants or estates, to ask for permission to use names, places and events. If I have misquoted you, spelt your name incorrectly, or said things about you I maybe shouldn't have; I apologise. I have changed a few names because I don't like being yelled at. To use information from books, songs, poems, photos, various artworks and websites, I tried to contact all copyright owners. The response has been extraordinary - usually with permission and good wishes - and I have acknowledged these either throughout or at the end, and I thank you. Unintended errors in facts, opinions, or what actually happened are mine and if you see any, I prefer not to know.

TP
**First bit**

Little campfires, with flickering orange flames and red coals, allow you to stare and dream, and that's why they were invented. You can even do small jobs like re-position the billy, but these will not break the trance, nor will you remember making these small movements. Just your mind and a little campfire. Little fires only allow good thoughts in; this is a fact. There is no way that you can feel bad. Your spirit will travel into the coals and absorb peace and tranquillity; no worry or anxiety will enter. Of course, spirits don't ever burn; they can take any sort of pain and will remain unscathed. Watch out for your fingers, though. And when you take your leave, you will walk away a free man, or a free woman; although other options may present themselves later. Any hopes and dreams you have, any aspirations for reparation, for poetry, any words of love, they are yours forever once you depart a little fire. It's also a good idea to pour water on your campfire once you're done dreaming.

In 1976, I stared at many small campfires on my way down the Darling River. I drifted over a thousand miles down this old river in western New South Wales in a ten-foot, flat-bottomed boat. I had no motor, no oars, just a paddle to get me to shore. The trip took around eighteen months. I went fishing and birdwatching, I stopped at towns, did a bit of station work, met some of Australia's finest people and all the while looked for adventure and answers to life's question about where I belonged; if indeed I did belong somewhere.

At that time, being a confused twenty-four year-old, my attitude to life was based on denial and my accompanying mental state was a bubbling stew pot with the lid on; waiting. Not waiting to explode in a frenzy of angry meat and potatoes but to implode in a recognition of its real ingredients; a fear of facing up to life, suppressed emotions and a non-acceptance of all of the above, including myself.

When I was a teenager, my mum died, I stuffed my knee and couldn't play football anymore, then my back disintegrated and I couldn't do my trade. A mature reaction to these events was called for. So I ran away. Overseas travel gave me respite from the losses and developing loneliness, and I stumbled on something called depression. London almost gave me a place to belong, and I then lived on a kibbutz. I returned to my home town, Dubbo; and I did not belong. So I did the only thing I knew that would ease the self-imposed blame-others anguish; I ran away. This time down the Darling River.

I drifted through the Macquarie Marshes to join the Barwon River, which then becomes the great Darling River. I passed through Brewarrina with its amazing Aboriginal fisheries, through Henry Lawson's Bourke, learned about life in Louth, met the living-forever people from Tilpa, led with my head in Wilcannia, then turned off below Menindee to go down the Great Anabranch. The trip was partly about love; something I feared. Marvellous what you find when you're not looking. Then after a visit to Melbourne to see my girl, I spent most of 1978 living alone in an old farmhouse next to the Macquarie Marshes. Right at the end of that year some things came apart and some came together. I think these days a mental breakdown is referred to as a spiritual awakening or a learning experience, but never mind, I did find something I had been looking for; right under my nose.

The most exciting thing I do these days is decide if I can make it to the mailbox and back - in the one day. A lifetime of sleeping on riverbanks, drinking Pilsener and telling lies to myself has left me a little crumbly at the edges, and I consider getting out of bed each morning a major achievement. But back in 1976 I was the man. I was handsome, tough and brave; although some have indicated that I was ugly, soft, and that I tell lies. To prepare for eighteen months of sleeping rough, of dodging pigs, snakes and incoherent thoughts on the old river, I had excellent training. There was no strict diet, no daybreak rises followed by arduous army-type exercises, and certainly no abstinence from alcohol or naughty thoughts. No; I had survived growing up in Dubbo, in country New South Wales. If you're not busy this weekend, go for a visit. Make sure you leave a note on the kitchen table so the authorities will know where to search for your body if you don't make it home. In West Dubbo, my side of town (clearly the more upmarket area let me tell you); you can still get anything you want; surface to air, a choice of things to yearn for, or early edition Phantom comics. Great place West Dubbo; I miss it terribly.

I have tried to describe what this trip down the Darling meant. I am still trying to decipher the complexities of solitude, the reason I howl at a full moon and why reflection can be a dangerous pastime. Had I known that being charged by wild pigs was a part of the search for belonging, I would have stayed in Dubbo and continued to drag my knuckles. Had I been aware that crying myself to sleep did not count as adventure, I would still be sitting in the bar at my favourite hotel, communicating in an endangered language that has been referred to as 'white-trash with an accent'.

I have travelled to seventeen different countries, walked, hitched or crawled in nearly all Australian states and territories, and I still say the 1970s Darling River trip was the most exhilarating travel experience I have ever had. It was a mixture of the daily goings on that happened on the river and aspirations of a dreamer who did not know his place in the world. These aspirations were a combination of what is and what might be, sort of like faith I guess, and they both seeped into my whole body through each bend, each bird, and each bush character I met; until they became the making of me.
**Part 1: 1976**

The Macquarie Marshes and the Barwon River
The Macquarie Marshes

The Macquarie River starts near Bathurst, winds down through Dubbo, and then a little way past Warren, and spreads into the Macquarie Marshes - also known as birdwatching heaven. The Macquarie River then flows (usually) into the Barwon River, which changes its name to the Darling between Brewarrina and Bourke. Thirty miles past Warren is where the first river trip started. This starting place gave me a week of getting used to the rhythms of river life before I reached the Macquarie Marshes. Map courtesy of Gillian Hogendyk.

Green, Petrovic, Moss and Burrell wrote:

_"The Macquarie River breaks into a number of creeks and channels and forms a complex of wetlands called the South Marsh. The channels then coalesce for a brief stretch of river, before spreading out again into an ­other vast complex of wetlands called the North Marsh. This complex of permanent wetlands, ephemeral wet­lands, and floodplain is collectively known as the Macqua­rie Marshes."_
1

Facing death at 7 a.m. tends to bring the day into focus; and that's even before a coffee hit. If I didn't do this correctly, right here on the Macquarie River, I could die. And as I bent down to pick up a six-foot long, three-inch thick brown snake, I envisioned people back home in Dubbo thinking, 'That Pritchard; you hear what he did out there on the rivers? All those snakes he picked up? My word he must be brave.'

But I wasn't at all brave. It was a false front designed to trick people; myself included. I did other dangerous things too: climbing to birds' nests on thin dead branches, leaning over the edge of two-thousand foot cliffs, taunting feral pigs so they would charge, and drinking coffee without milk. Stupidity is not only the cousin to adventure; it belongs to the family tree that includes the brainlessness of youth and a denial of mortality; both currently my strong points. There could be dry rot in a few branches.

But I didn't die that morning. I put a stick on the snake's neck (although there is not a definite delineation between a snake's head and the remainder of its body as there is in humans - rugby league players the exception), and grabbed it just under the jaw with my thumb and my index finger on the top bit. I had to be careful because a snake's jaws are sort of rubbery and can twist easily. I stroked his smooth skin and marvelled at the colour of his coils, all the while watching the little black beady eye that was watching me.

Doing risky things alone, away out there, was kind of dumb, but in my defence, twenty-four in the male world in 1976 was still considered youthful, although I have noticed lately being older does not always guarantee maturity or aversion to risk-taking.

In the following fifty years I have done seven more trips on the Darling, usually paddling around six-hundred kilometres each time (I have swapped the flat-bottomed tinnie for a canoe), and the recklessness of youth occasionally kicks in. Maybe one day I'll come unstuck.

_Police can't understand how he fell; the Willie-Wagtail's nest was only a metre off the ground. The autopsy also showed multiple double-puncture wounds, various cuts and slashes to the lower body, and residues of black coffee. Police said there were no suspicious circumstances._

The naturalist Harry Butler, my television hero, told me many years after I finished this trip, how to pick up snakes. ' _Dear Tony, There is no set snake catching technique for me. Depends what the snake is and how it is positioned which gives some indication of how it is feeling which will also assist in handling. Your technique of head pinning and jaw locking works well._

The advice Bill Bryson got in _Down Under_ was interesting; _"But don't worry," she continued. "Most snakes don't want to hurt you. If you're out in the bush and a snake comes along, just stop dead and let it slide over your shoes." This, I decided, was the least-likely-to-be-followed advice I have ever been given."_

As I was about to enter the Macquarie Marshes, I met a jackaroo whose left foot was the size of a ripe watermelon.

He said, 'Brown snake attacked me last week. I was near some reeds and this monster of a snake went for me.'

'Didn't you, like, run? Quite fast even?'

'Sure I ran, but it kept chasing and striking me. I had riding boots on too. Can I say, you won't outrun a snake; ever. So good luck in there.'

And so here I was, wearing footy shorts, sandshoes and a towelling hat, about to enter swamps that were seething with snakes, all concealed in the vegetation waiting to kill me.

And there was a minor flood coming, so the wide shallow nature of the marshes would mean that most camp sites would be under water. The extra water also meant that the faster current in the channels could trap me against logs and reeds. Then if I wasn't tipped out and drowned; I would represent a dry bed for the snakes.

I came through a plain of dead trees, and the river branched four times. Decisions on which branch to go down were made on precise mathematical principles, sound logic and deep reasoning; also known as, Which one this time? I took three left and one right and was then funnelled into a very fast channel, narrow and deep, with eight-foot high dead reeds on either side. No turning back now. I bounced over logs, barbed-wire fences and mysterious things that lived underwater.

And because the extra water had limited the availability of un-wet land, I had to sleep in the boat. I thought this to be exciting and explorerish, but when I was forced to sleep in the boat down past Brewarrina as a bunch of snakes ganged up and tried to kill me, it somehow didn't seem as romantic. Then it was freezing, cramped and scary. Slightly changed waterscape to be sure, but same boat and same sleeping arrangements, and I did wonder what the difference was. But for now, this southern marsh was adventure and this taste of wilderness gave me confidence for the next phase.

However, this epitome of innocence, keenness and cockiness, (i.e., same stupidity as before) had a slight setback as I prepared to enter the Northern Macquarie Marshes.
2

_'Yes, you got through the southern section, that's easy, but you will not get through the Northern Marsh because all the channels flow into a wall of reeds; miles and miles across, and miles and miles deep, and the water does not come out the other side; nor will you. Many locals have tried it in canoes and couldn't get through. And snakes? What you saw up until now was nothing; just wait until you get into those Northern Marshes.'_

That love and support came from locals trying to scare me; and they did an okay job.

Fear can be that instant survival thing when vicious animals, military hardware or being caught with your hand in the lolly-jar threaten your life. For all three, it's get-the-hell-out-of-there time. Or fear can be a fear of fear, or a projected what-might-happen thought, and could therefore be overcome by reversing those thoughts.

Easy to say; harder to unthink, and the fear I had was a cross between reality and imagination. I had seen reed beds, bulrushes and disappearing water, I had seen glistening brown snakes on a regular basis. Now my fear gave me visions of being jammed against that wall of reeds fending off hostile reptiles with the paddle.

One of the reasons I started this river trip was to do something that would make me feel good about myself. And my version of good, at that point, was to be tough and have no fear. But now the thought of getting stuck equalled an even greater fear; that of being thought by others as a failure. Letting others be the gauge of self-worth is fraught with tail-chasing. I know that now.

A trail of breadcrumbs obviously wouldn't be practical; too many birds. So I did the only sensible thing I knew how to in these situations; I ran away. I removed myself from the place of fears. How easy was that? I paddled west until it was too shallow to do so, tied the boat to a tree, walked further west through swamps, prickles and bulldog ants until I hit the road, and then hitched a ride back into Warren. I wasn't sure what I would do there. All I knew was that I was avoiding the reality of this situation by putting time and distance between me and the place of fear, because my boat was still back there.

I phoned dad, and we had a chat about pigeons and football. Then he said,

'You've been away just over a week, everything okay?'

'Oh you know, things are pretty good, really.' There was a small silence. 'Just having a cold beer in Warren.'

'Right,' he said.

'Yeah, catching a few fish, seen fantastic water birds. Had a hot shower, too.' Silence again.

'Right,' he said.

'Lots of snakes too and apparently there are more in the northern marshes. The locals reckon the reed beds will stop me. Anyway, I'm clean and drunk.' Silence; getting longer.

'Give it your best shot; all you can do.'

As I walked to the outskirts of Warren to hitch a ride back to the boat, (I didn't really mean it when I said I was going to quit), I was a few inches above the ground. Walking on air is what you do when you have conquered your world of fear and insecurity. It's what you do when you have a dad who cares. The first lift couldn't take me all the way to the tree that was my marker to head east to find the boat.

'I'll drop you here at my turnoff; you should pick up another ride before nightfall.'

He did and I didn't, but it didn't matter because when you are in one of those bouncy moods, nothing is not right. I had excellent provisions; half a home-made fruit cake and an orange, and even the chilly August night that was coming in blue waves across the paddock didn't faze me. I had no blankets, but no matter because I had seen an alternative a few days before that impressed me. There was an empty grass bed out on the plains, and I had tried it for size and found it just right; soft and comfortably warm. The big black pig that owned it had decided to let me have it after I had asked him to do so. I then decided that these feral pigs weren't as frightening as I'd heard; which was a view that would be soon challenged.

So right there next to the Warren-Carinda Road, I made a similar pig-bed. Found a hollow, lined it with grass, and had another pile of grass to pull on top of me. I was cosy all night, and at dawn, when I stuck my nose out, (it's long like an echidna's and quite large and curvy and I store my camping gear inside), it was really cold. I then realised that I was invincible. Dad had given me myself back. I would walk over those reed beds in the Northern Marshes; carry the boat if I had to. _Going to give it my best shot._
3

In the Macquarie Marshes there are:

_"...a wide range of vegetation types including river red gum woodland, water couch grasslands, coolabah and black box woodlands, lignum swamps, reed swamps, cumbungi and river cooba. The diversity of vegetation communities within the marshes provides habitat for an array of wildlife including 211 bird species, eight species of native mammal, 15 frog species, 56 reptile species and 24 native fish species_." Thank you Gillian Hogendyk - it is a beautiful place.

I saw two nesting pairs of white-breasted sea eagles. You would think with Australia being an island and all, that they would have enough sea-water along Australia's coastline. If they stay inland, they will need a name change to white-breasted sea and/or fresh water eagle, and attend some serious geography tutorials _._

Black swans seem to nest in late winter and their nests are quite large mounds surrounded by water, looking like castles and they mostly use reeds and thin stuff and the bit where the eggs are laid is so soft it's quite okay to curl up and sleep in there; and when the cygnets hatch they don't mind company. I saw hundreds of such nests, but also one nest that was built from large sticks, like those used by a wedge-tailed eagle. The locals didn't believe me about this. _No mate, swans' nests are only made out of reeds, sedges and soft things, never with sticks. We're locals and we know stuff. Who you trying to kid? You won't get through them reeds, you know that don't you?_

Swans can dance; a pair can do synchronised swimming on top of the water. Two necks curved down, two red beaks, gently touching sides, slowly in circles, slowly in lines, slowly skating on the surface. I also saw brolgas dancing, their lanky legs stepping out, heads bobbing, wings outstretching. I saw great-crested grebes dancing, those shaved-necked punks that have studs and tatts, graceful, and full of passion.

Some of the water birds were very nervous types. When you made shadow puppet things across their lagoon, and your hands have to be fairly large in order to do this, they squealed and ran across the water to the safety of the reeds, leaving circular expanding ripples. I suppose if you were a coot or a moorhen and you chose not to be skittish and get the hell out of there, the one time you said, _Nah, it's just some fool playing silly buggers,_ it would be a swamp harrier, and you would be in large bother.

Some raptors fly openly out of their hiding places. Swamp harriers don't; they emerge. These harriers glide just above the reeds on upswept wings. They don't have legs with talons; they have grappling hooks, dangling there ready to pounce on confused cloud-shy water birds. When black ducks get a fright, particularly from a pair of industrial hooks, they don't just fly away to safety, they erupt vertically out of the water, whereas a white-faced heron and the slightly larger white-necked heron will lift themselves out gracefully, then bank to the side.

Some water birds, like pelicans, land gracefully in the water. They slide like they are on glass, and then sink when they stop. Musk ducks don't land in in the water, they crash.

I started watching birds at around twelve months old, and the binoculars were heavy as they dangled there banging against my poor little tummy as I was pushed along in a trolley. _Mummy, I say mummy, could you please slow down a tad, I see a grey-crowned babbler._

I have recorded a few observations of my own on the habits and personalities of some of the birds in western New South Wales, and I usually discuss these bird attributes with myself, because farmers, fishermen and hotel patrons would run away screaming when I would garble on. Birds not only do what they are supposed to do, i.e., fly and build nests (of course some species don't fly particularly well, and some don't build much of a nest either), __ but all __ birds have distinct personalities. They talk to one another, often through non-verbals. They also have emotions and aspirations for a better life. My notes explain why pelicans __ are not really pelicans; they are in disguise. And that nankeen night-herons are something entirely different to what they are supposed to be, which is a brown bird that clucks like a chook. After you read a couple of these character observations, you will either say, 'My goodness, this Pritchard fellow knows his stuff,' or, 'How come he's alone way out there in the bush making up stuff? Doesn't he have to report to the police each day?'

Just as a reminder, an apology if you like, to real birdwatchers; my observations are often bizarre, largely irrelevant, and will not enhance contemporary knowledge of Australian birds; ever. Funny though, some of them. And if you are a birdwatcher, you will know a side of life only seen by those who wear those white jackets with the arms folded around, those who watch B-grade movies by choice, and those who cultivate mistletoe to be used as a courting item. You will know that warm feeling as you watch a little falcon ripping a corella into little pieces; you will understand bravery when you see the father wood duck doing the broken-wing act across the river that would surely land him a part in any drama production, no further audition necessary, thank you, just turn up next Tuesday.

If you're not a birdwatcher, please be assured that by the end of this story you will purchase a pair of binoculars and a field guide, and very soon afterwards you will phone friends and convince them that they must come over, now, because there's a square-tailed kite in the tree next door. And why only the other day you saw a mob of five-hundred white-breasted wood swallows. Your life then will also be in rapid decline; you will no longer be invited to any form of social gathering, you will always wake at dawn, waiting; and you will become a list person. Very unsettling to be around. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I knew birdwatching was indeed something special but I couldn't yet work out why. I knew there was more and felt that I was getting there, somewhere, somehow, but hadn't fully understood its deeper meanings; including access to self-belief. I also couldn't grasp its closeness to a feeling that I call god; not yet.

I like to identify new birds, very much so, but the ones seen often are just as exciting. The Northern Macquarie Marshes gave me both types; white-eyed ducks, blue-billed ducks, musk ducks and whistling ducks were in the first category, and the dusky moorhens, coots and swamphens in the second. I waded, I tripped and I awed.

I saw hoary-headed grebes, white-fronted chats, spotted crakes, owlet nightjars going churr churr in daylight, crimson wings who have an opposite colour scheme to king parrots, royal spoonbills with a stature that accentuates their black bill and mullet, I saw twenty-one brolgas, now there is beauty and grace; I saw egrets so white you just know they have used bleach. And while I did get stuck every now and again in the northern Macquarie Marshes, every day was magic, not because I was still alive at the end of each one but because I had seen birds. And although I certainly did go down the Darling for adventure and to go birdwatching, there was something else; something that I thought easily obtainable - finding a place to belong.
4

Was belonging about a physical place? About a town called Dubbo? At one time for me it was and as its bedrock I had two wonderful parents. I did not appreciate what they did for me until I melted down after the river trip.

Dad came to every football match I ever played and he took me fishing approximately twenty-four hours a day. We did stuff like build an aviary, patch up a wooden boat and he taught me about homing pigeons. By the time I was nine I was an expert in iridology, genetics and the best way to shovel pigeon poo.

Dad was a painter for the Public Works Department, and the letters PWD could be seen stencilled on various items around our backyard. Dad said this was so he could remember where he worked. Public Works sweat was measured against the U.S. dollar, and was occasionally listed on the stock market. There was also a rumour that some of the workers had to be lined up with a telegraph pole to see if they were actually moving. It was said that glaciers moved faster than PWD painters. Dad painted schools, including Dubbo West Public School, courthouses, and fire stations. He used to go out of town a fair bit, quite often to towns on and around the Darling River. When he would come home from these times on the river he would tell stories. I always begged dad to retell one particular story. Of course, he said. I realised much later that my dad let me belong by repeating the tall tales I loved. He let me be a part of his world.

'Well, when we were at Bourke, we'd always go to a sheep station down near Louth to do a bit of fishing and pig shooting. Bloke that managed the station was a real character. He was known as the drunk wog because he always had a schooner in his hand. Bit of a ladies man, was our wog. They must have loved his nose. Anyway, late one afternoon my mate Terry Rose and me, well we had our lines set, just trying to catch a feed of Murray cod or yellowbelly. We were on the inside of a tight bend, on a soft sandy beach with old gnarled gum trees back up on the top of the bank. Full of screeching corellas, they were. There was a little falcon too, just gliding across the tree line, scaring those corellas. Falcons eat corellas but they also scare them just for fun. Now there's heaps of these sandy beach spots, but there's always one that makes you believe in something; if you're are ready for it. We went pig shooting for a while, and I didn't know that as we crept up on a mob of pigs, an old black boar was stalking me. He was massive, big as a half-grown calf. Then he charged me, coming from behind as I was kneeling down aiming at another pig. Just as he was about to gore me with his tusks that were six inches long, curved like scimitars from Arabia, Terry Rose shot him, _bang_ , there on the banks of the Darling River. And that black boar, he fell dead against my legs, his shaggy head coming to rest on my sandshoes.'

'Wow dad, were you scared?'

'Hmmm, what do you reckon? I think the tusks are still out there on the wall of the station homestead.'

The sheer terror of being attacked by a wild boar, not to mention the danger of someone discharging a firearm that was aimed toward your backside in order to save your life, freaked me out. Not to mention getting the sandshoes dirty.

'Nah, be alright; wouldn't be scared.'

You think one way about something, you might judge, condemn or even brag to cover up your weaknesses and fear, but when that thing really does happen to you, your reaction may be just how you thought it would be. And I was certainly terrified the first time a boar charged me.

The feral pigs I had seen so far were black, rugged looking with long untidy manes filthy with mud and several types of vegetation, and rancorous red eyes. I didn't like feral pigs because of the damage they do and I shot quite a few. And my usual rule was if I kill something I eat it. This does have a downside, particularly in regard to flies, cockroaches and cane-toads. But never mind; one needs protein. If something moved, I was willing to eat it. Most species of wildlife didn't go down without a fight and I was set upon constantly, every couple of hours something was trying to kill me. Although when I was attacked or even threatened by animals that I wasn't even going to eat __ was particularly unfair. When I later met a vet in Bourke, who said, _You what? You eat feral pigs? You are a fool. Do you have any idea how many diseases they carry?_ I said No, and that I didn't have any idea about a lot of things so no need to single out feral pigs. Maybe it was better that way, the not knowing. I decided not to tell the Bourke vet I also drank blood from wild animals.

The destruction from wallowing pigs, in and around the Macquarie Marshes was widespread, and I thought that pigs, while having excellent hearing and smelling (though urgently needing to see an optometrist), were chickens. I had scared hundreds just by screwing my face and growling. This idiotic attitude was not only incorrect but after a couple of minor incidents coming up, I was tempted to scream in fear and run away every time I saw a wild pig.

On the lower Macquarie past the Northern Marshes there were still some swampy sections, and I came upon some campers who weren't birdwatching or fishing; just ordinary old pig shooting. One of these campers, name of Jim, invited me along on the hunt for a certain boar. And me, shortly to be recognised as a fool, but at this point still on a very low wage as a young apprentice in the trade of knowledge of diseases said, 'Yes I'll come, I hate these feral pigs,' before my brain could kick in and tell me just how scary this might be.

'But,' Jim said, 'I do things differently.'

I said, 'How different can it be; shooting a pig?'

'I'm going to give him a chance.'

Was he going to run a martial arts workshop perhaps? Run a couple of self-esteem sessions?

'I stalk the pig, and...' - he looked to the side and did one of those short pauses-for-effect - '...I only take two bullets.'

Right. Mind you, I did see his weapon and I think elephant rifle would be an apt title. I figured that if you fired one of Jim's bullets, and missed, it would form its own orbit. You'd have to watch for it and duck each time it came around. Otherwise being smacked in the back of the head by a four inch long, one inch thick bullet is likely to give you a headache. I suppose most things whacking you at around 18,000 mph are liable to hurt.

'And,' he continued, making another pause, this one considerably longer, 'I aggravate the boar so he charges.'

'Hang on, Jim, can we go over this again? We creep up, you make the boar charge, and you only take two bullets?'

'Yep that's it.'

'And me being with you - though I have just remembered an important appointment to see if I still have any common sense - like what weaponry would I take? At the minute, I'm thinking AK47, or at least a shanghai and a handful of ball bearings.'

'No, nothing for you. And we will be hunting the legendary blue boar.'

I was then wondering if my medical benefit membership was still active, and if there was space for a helicopter pad. I asked him, 'What is this blue boar? Aren't they all black anyway? And why is he so famous? Has he been in a movie? Got an LP out?

'They're not all black. This fellow is huge, like I'm talking ten foot long. He also has a blue tinge and when the sun reflects off his side, he becomes invisible. When he walks, silently I might add, through the saltbush, he really is camouflaged. And he has been known to creep up on blokes trying to hunt him down. And the hunters, the ones that have survived, run away.'

'Can't understand why Jim.'

'Me neither.'

If I survived this escapade, I envisaged a future in which I was really old, at least thirty, and with all limbs relatively intact, and a promise to never do anything like this again. I would be sitting in a soft chair, with a blanket over my legs (or what was left of them), probably on a verandah overlooking a swamp full of birds, making shadow puppets, and quietly reflecting about the good old days that I had spent hunting big game. Swap notes with Ernest and stuff.

But here I was, no rifle of my own, with a crazy man with only two bullets for his, and an invisible blue boar he was looking to antagonise. We lay down and crept around using our elbows like little stumpy legs, always with the breeze on our faces like they do in the movies. In the distance we saw a mob of sows and young boars, but none that looked particularly legendary. We crawled closer, and then out from behind a saltbush about thirty feet away, the blue boar quietly walked, and looked straight at me. I think a bit of pee came out about then which was an indication that things may not turn out as planned. He was the size of a buffalo and had a mane like a Shetland pony. His tusks were eight inches long and had they been a bit more on the horizontal, wouldn't have been out of place on a half-grown elephant. We weren't stalking this baby; he had been waiting for us.

No provocation was needed; the boar took off like a cannon ball, head down coming straight toward us, tossing hunks of grass and mud in the air like a demented excavator. He also appeared to be quite focussed, and possibly not wanting to discuss the terms and conditions of my intending surrender that I had with me. Had a full diary I expect; booked in to a board meeting maybe.

As the blue boar charged, we both stood up, relatively quickly I recall, and I crouched well behind two-bullet man, because I reckoned that if the boar killed him, it would eat him, and then be satisfied and I could quietly slip away.

'Hey Tony, where's Jim?'

'Oh, he just went down river a bit more. Look fellas, thanks for your hospitality, I'll head off now. Before you find what's left of Jim.'

'What was that?'

'I said, This paddling keeps me in trim. Bye.'

Rifle man raised his gun and Bang; the explosion echoed across the plains. In this now eerie world of cordite and bird silence, I hoped that he had held that rifle softly against his shoulder, because if he hadn't, he would get quite a large bruise and would need some ice. Focus Tony. His shot ploughed into the soil and dirt showered over a couple of acres. No orbit here, this bullet was going to end up in the centre of the earth,

With only one bullet remaining, things were now going to get reasonably interesting. The boar, who truly shined a glossy blue, kept pounding toward us (all in slow motion, otherwise we would have both died) and had his little mean red eyes now firmly on one-bullet man, who then sidestepped like blokes do in Spain. The pig thundered toward me, and the bloody thing was smiling. I dived to the other side, which was obviously going to confuse this monster, did a shoulder roll and crouched, ready to fight. It was about then that I realised I may only have a few seconds left to live. The boar skidded around like he'd slammed the handbrake on and a few more acres of soil were hurled into the air. I said a couple of naughty words as this mammoth launched himself at me, now grinning much wider because he knew he had me, and then rifle man shot the blue boar, with his second, and therefore last bullet. This massive animal crashed down right at my feet and his huge shaggy head thudded onto my sandshoes. The boar was dead and quivering as much as I was alive and quivering. I said, to the man who-gives-pigs-a-chance, 'I say old chap, mind if we don't do this again for a while?'

Back at camp, still blubbering, I sat down so my wet pants and shaking knees wouldn't be noticeable. I saw his rifle case and it had _James Rose_ embossed on the front.

A wave of nostalgia for dad and his stories, and even for Dubbo, washed over me.
5

Mum and Dad met at a jam factory where they both worked. Dad went to New Guinea to help disrupt the Japanese advance, and on to Japan with the occupation forces. When he returned in 1947, mum and dad were married. I've ended up with their wedding photo and when I look at the sepia image, I see a couple who always did the right thing by their two kids.

Mum was a 1950's mum who stayed at home and did stuff like baking and ironing; and patching me up. I'd run into the kitchen, fresh from slaying several hundred baddies, howling in pain, urging her to have a look at yet another horrific injury, and seeking that cure for all maladies from pneumonia to snake-bite; a mother's kiss.

'See? Look at that, _eeyow_ , probably lose an arm over this.'

She would casually glance down at the ant bite, 'Nuh, no blood,' hold my hand, kiss the brutal wound, and then return to peeling the potatoes. I would then skip outside to do further battle. The no-blood rule could be invoked for any abrasion or cut, and even if there was blood, one wipe and a bit of subtle pressure, quickly followed by a Band-Aid, would reinforce that no indeed, there was no blood there, see? And therefore no pain. I would continue playing with broken bones, twisted ankles and Whooping Cough; simply because there was no blood.

The kissing remedy was risky because of where my hands, legs or feet had been, often all three at the same time. However, these risks were overlooked and kissing to make things better was encouraged by medical people because they knew that the chance of endemics, pandemics or Black Plague, were offset by national savings in ambulance call-outs, hospital bed fees and headache powders. The State owes millions to the mothers of West Dubbo.

We didn't have the ubiquitous quarter-acre block that was the essential for every Australian family back in those days, we didn't live in a normal house with a kitchen and a lounge room and bedrooms; we lived in a motel. Each night mum would say,

'Welcome home to Motel Pritchard,'

'But mum, we live in a house, don't we? You know, rooms and stuff? I've seen them.'

'It seems you spend all your time messing about on the river and all you do is eat and sleep here. Now go wash your hands and come and get your tea.'

We had no spare money, I know that now. Mum was ashamed of our simple house and I could never understand this. Looked fine to me: laminex, lino, and a wood stove. Besides, you should have seen some of my mates' houses. One skinny kid named Sammy, a spindly secretive kid, said, Hey, want to come around?

No furniture, no beds, just an empty unloved house, and his dad, crashed on the floor, with brown tallies scattered around him. And one tomato in the cupboard. I had never seen anything like this. I quietly thought I was the most fortunate kid in the world, never mind West Dubbo. House, motel, who cared; I was loved, fed and clothed.

I brought mates around. We played cards, we mended fishing gear and we ate anything that wasn't nailed to the floor. And mum fed us all; savoury mince and hot buttery mashed potato with grated onion and chopped parsley mixed in, or fish fingers; my favourite. Bet you didn't know fish had fingers. Could have been something in the water around Dubbo.

When I was seventeen, Mum gave me the big death and dying talk.

'Well darling, you know your Nana is pretty sick, and well, you know, she might die, one day, like maybe even soon.'

Hey take it easy mum, what's going on here? No-one dies, ever. I don't understand death and I don't want to talk about it, really I don't.

'What do you mean; die? Nana's not going to die; is she?'

Parents do that, they try to prepare you for an aspect of living that is rarely talked about. I was nowhere near ready for what happened. Nana was in the Country Women's Association and did grandmotherly things like knit and bake, and praise her handsome grandchild/ren

She had been such a vibrant woman but now she was fading. She had played tennis with one of those strappy tennis caps that had no top, a topless strap one could say, just a visor like you see blokes wearing in poker games in shady nightclubs with blondes leaning all over them, blondes that wore skimpy tops, strapless tops I expect, that showed their bare shoulders. Things were racy then. Nana played cards too; Euchre, Blackjack, Strip Poker, Five Hundred; and she taught me the lot. I win great fortunes every time I hit the casinos. They won't let me in now. And nana took me fishing and always gushed with praise at everything I did. 'Wow, Sweetie Pie Crust, you made the cricket team! How wonderful!'

The pie-crust thing was a bit embarrassing, but the overwhelming gush was okay.

And although mum did her best to talk to me about this death thing I couldn't get my head around it. Not for a week or so anyway. Which is when mum died. It took me ten years to start to understand how to deal with it.

It was a heart attack, bang just like that. I was out of town working on a house with a bunch of tradies and we were staying in shearers' huts. There was a thumping on the door,

'Police-here-open-up.'

Those four words spoken loudly and without pause bring fear along for the ride.

'Looking for Tony Pritchard. Yeah, you him? Well son your mum died today. Just dropped dead. Sorry mate.'

Wow, that was sensitive. Got any good tips for the fifth at Randwick while you're here? Everyone else in the hut suddenly found something interesting to look at on the back wall. As we drove back to Dubbo that night someone put a large stone low down in my stomach and I had that stare where you just look and see nothing in front because you're not really looking at anything; it's just a coincidence that your eyes are open. I was seventeen and those mates of mine, the ones who were occasionally rough in their mateship, the ones who suggested I may bat for the other team, or that I was a birdwatcher, they called around and hung onto me. My mum, she had fed them, she never questioned their arrivals, their grubbiness, or our limited food supply. Even the girls who laughed at me because I was a birdwatcher wrote nice cards.

The funeral was weird. Apart from a wavering dread continually going up and down in my guts, it was an out of character ritual that was full of stuff I didn't normally do; like seeing dead people you know, or wearing good clothes that don't fit properly. Even though mum died in early September, that year was unseasonably warm, and the tight clothes brought a hot and stuffy feeling. Then there was the organ; no wonder people howl at funerals.

I sat at the front in a church made of stained glass and lies, saying prayers which meant nothing. All the old relatives bawled and us younger ones didn't know what to do. We looked around like horses before a storm, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and manes all untidy. The old man looked stoic. In the following year he was also to lose his mum and dad.

A crow carked, a dog barked and someone stifled a sob. Dad and his brothers lowered the coffin into this really deep rectangular hole; beautifully dug I might add. A box that is called a casket: shiny brown with gold handles. What did it matter? Why not get wrapped in one of our spare tablecloths? It's all going six foot down. And not to feed worms either; there are no worms under six foot of red clay. Lower her down slowly boys; be gentle. After the funeral we all went back home for a pot of tea and sandwiches. Like you're real hungry then. I guess the rellies needed to be busy so they couldn't talk, or think. I was fine; just ask me. After it's all over your life tries to return to normal, but it never does.
6

Can you only become brave if you're afraid first? Are they exclusive, or do they both have to happen at the same time? Or are some people brave all the time and never know fear? These questions were about to be answered. Each time I thought about the excitement of the blue pig adventure, I became braver. Braver because I had certainly been afraid before, but also braver because I had made a small alteration of facts back at the blue pig incident which included considerable forgetfulness of the fear and danger. I couldn't wait to have a pig charge me again. Man, I was feeling like a real tough bushie. This river trip was worth it.

I saw a large sow, about thirty yards away; she was black, rugged looking, and had little ones rustling around her feet. My first thought was there scrambles my dinner, but I didn't have the rifle. Second thought came up as the love-child of self-delusion and stupidity. Had I not recently faced an enraged boar, by myself; and won out? And had I not killed this massive blue boar bare-handed? How would a much smaller pig, coming in at only eight-foot long, cause me any bother? And that rifle man of the blue boar was a beginner; and only I knew the true way.

I thought I would provoke the pig like rifle man did, but without the rifle, and its two bullets. And then once I dealt with her, I would grab a piglet to eat. What could possibly go wrong?

I yelled out, motioned four fingers toward me, and said _,_ _Hey you! Let's see what you've got._ She showed me what she had alright; she came tearing at me. Strewth, that wasn't really supposed to happen. I turned and raced, arms and legs pumping up and down like a diesel water pump with a large flywheel on an eccentric arm, to a very small tree, and leapt up into this not-very-strong sapling just in time. She ran around, snorting and snarling and I taunted her by mentioning that her hair was messy, particularly as it was full of mud, and that maybe a wash and rinse would do wonders. _Come up and get me! Oh that's right, you can't climb trees. Sorry, I forgot._

She went frothy and berserk, and I started to feel awful that I had teased her.

She trotted away in disgust, muttering to herself. She probably said, _I'm just going to pretend to walk away from this idiot but I'm really going to hide, then double back and get him._

Which is exactly what she did.

After a couple of days I climbed down. I rubbed my shoulders, uncricked my neck and peeked around the lignum bushes but couldn't see her. Mind you, there could have been several thousand pigs hiding in there and I'd never have known. Forgetting about looking for a small-serve dinner (I had decided to show mercy; I do that sometimes; just exude compassion), I snuck back towards the boat, getting braver with every tree I peered around, and as I got near to the riverbank, out in the open, a stick flicked up and touched my leg. I jumped and squealed. My heart was pounding and I had to take some deep breaths to settle my nerves. When I was close to the boat, I heard a quiet grunt; a very low one that sort of rumbled. I turned my head, really slowly, and saw the sow at the top of the bank.

There are times in life when one has to face adversity, to step up to the mark and to show courage. This was clearly not going to be one of those times; I ran - again.

I took long strides and dived into the boat, sending it shooting out into the deep river. As I lay there, sprawled awkwardly amongst tin trunks, dodgy magazines and chocolate wrappers, I looked back expecting to see her shaking her head in anger, like she did under the tree.

But no, she wasn't up on the bank, and no she hadn't wandered back into the scrub either; she was swimming after me. I panicked, reached for the paddle, and dropped it into the water just as she came up to the side of the boat. I'm good under pressure. I leant over and pushed her head under, desperately dodging her snapping jaws, jaws that were loaded with green crooked teeth. Never mind a visit to a salon, a bit more attention to dental hygiene would be in order. I couldn't believe that I was being attacked by a swimming pig that thought strategically and was either very brave, or as stupid as me. Her persistence indicated that one of her parents was a blue cattle-dog. Thankfully she kept coming at me and not the boat, or I may have ended up in the water with her. I hoped she never taught her aggressive parenting skills to wood ducks. Imagine if you drifted around a corner and saw fifty wood ducks; all with ducklings.

There was nothing else on the planet, just me and a pig having a dance. Each time I leaned over and pushed her away, dodging those algae-encrusted teeth, the boat dipped precariously, spun away to be caught in the current, and then back towards the pig. Had we been in a shallow reach I think I would have come to grief. She kept coming and either I would make a mistake or she would get tired. I was plugging for option two. We parried for what seemed like hours, going around in a weird circle in the middle of the Macquarie River. Then the sow gave up, struggled to the bank, scrambled out, and shook herself dry. I yelled at her, _Yeah that's right, you didn't scare me anyway._

She looked back and gave me the most evil death stare I've ever had. Worse than the one I got off that girl in sixth class when she thought I had stolen her morning tea. The pig lifted her head and trotted with great dignity over the top of the bank. So Mr Elephant Gun man, cop that. None of your two bullet rubbish, that's how you give pigs a chance.

I saw the paddle floating by, grabbed it and continued like this was just a normal day drifting serenely on the river, like nothing had happened. My ribs ended up being badly bruised; maybe I didn't hold the boat softly against my chest when I dived in.
7

In 1968 Dubbo I was an apprenticed roof tiler. Here was pride and here was pain (usually separated but not necessarily). The pride came with honest toil and permitted me to access tradition and get the job done. However, denying your mortality by walking across a battened four-by-two rafter carrying nine terra-cotta roof tiles engendered a belief that nothing could ever hurt you. Being young, strong, and inexperienced has that effect. The pain came, not from aching muscles, but because I fell off and through so many roofs I had a room at the Dubbo Base Hospital Outpatients named after me; it's called The Slow Learner's Ward. I now have the pleasure of four bolts holding my skeleton together.

A belief system based on hard work and youthful naivety often came with terms and conditions. The idea of learning from a mentor, an experienced artisan, says ancient Greece and it says Old England pre industrial age; it also says a lot of things that no-one could hear. My teaching was not done patiently; it was sink or swim based on exploitation and humiliation. Tenuous links to a craft at best, and ones promoted and bolstered by a much different belief system than the one I had. And the naïve excitement of receiving an apprentice pay packet, one that reflected your boss's legalised slave-trader credentials, was offset by being made to lay down in the back of the new work ute because you weren't worthy to sit in the cab, or the orders to fill nail bags with the builder's two-inch nails from his little tin shed after we had completed the roof. I didn't mind stealing, but this was unfair, because my idea of theft had righteousness; which admittedly does make for an unusual distinction. Stealing to help others, as well as myself I deemed to be noble. Controlled elegance doesn't come close as a description; Robin Hood had nothing.

However, apart from living in Sherwood Forest, having your body wear out, and being sucked dry by capitalists, there were good points to these indentured jobs. All my mates were engaged in trades; they were apprenticed electricians, sheet-metal workers, plumbers or builders. Most still are. These positive points proceeded to shape our existence by:

1) Enabling us to leave high school at age fifteen.

2) Giving us the opportunity to become strong Aussie lads, working outdoors in the Australian sun and bronzed in the tradition of lifesavers and swimming pool attendants. Now, in doddering old age, I look down now at the twenty or so white scars along both arms that indicate the removal of sun cancers. I can't quite twist enough to see the thousands on my back, and my face resembles one of the minor placings in the Razor Wars.

3) Developing comradeship when we met up on building sites. This was a vital component of Australian mateship, that often abstract concept used by weak-livered politicians to shore up their levels of self-importance, electoral popularity and retirement funds. If, for example you had to go to the dunny, and in those days the onsite toilet was an iron sauna with a horizontal beam inside to lean your backside over, lumps of brick or roof tile were bounced off the sides. This meant that when you staggered out you would be drenched in sweat and your head would be ringing. No mercy no complaints; yet those same people who took pleasure in trying to kill you, would have no hesitation in loaning you their car, or twenty dollars because you were a bit short. (Usually so you could drive downtown and buy some painkillers.) It all meant you were accepted by others and belonged to something special. Along with the trades, there was another special group we belonged to; it was the game of football called rugby league.

There were three football codes played in Dubbo; rugby union, soccer and rugby league.

Rugby union was so elite you had to be the son of a lawyer, real estate salesman, or politician to even read the pre-season sign-up letter.

Soccer is a bizarre game that rugby league players would never consider playing. They'd get too edgy and frustrated and start a blue just for some action. To play soccer you must be swarthy, have an unpronounceable last name, and be able to stand in your position and never touch the ball for possibly an entire season. You risk getting flyblown, having crows pick your eyes out, and ambulance officers running out to administer CPR. And you can't touch anyone or anything with your hands, with the exception of one player in each team, and he is allowed to wear gloves. Rugby union and soccer are played with one ball; to play Rugby League you need two.

Rugby league is The Greatest Game of all because it belongs to the working class and does not discriminate; sort of like the ideals of public education. It is universal, and all races, intellectual capacities or lack thereof, and genders are welcome to participate.

Rugby league is the peasant, the artisan and the latrine digger; it is not the royalty in the castle. You need guts, commitment and honesty.

To make the team there are stringent requirements;

a) The coach shines a torch into your ear and if light comes out the other ear, you're in.

b) You must be able to tie your own shoelaces and,

c) Be able to write and sound out, at least three letters of the alphabet.

It has been said that Rugby League is an inferior code of football, is brutal, and is played by beer-gutted ageing has-been imbeciles. Even while there may be truth in that last point, these are harsh observations and while being a body contact sport, is nowhere as savage as water polo. To play rugby league you don't need an IQ above twenty-nine and a half. And while this medium-level score may indicate that players are between Moron and Idiot, or somewhere close to Mentally Defective or Retarded, what you do need is a belief in the strength of mateship and never giving in until the whistle blows.

Our coach at Dubbo Macquarie was Chick Pearce and he understood rugby league like no-one else on the planet; he _was_ rugby league. He taught us skills, moves and positional play; he knew each of us better than we did and he could read a game. Pearce had vision, he had a sense of destiny, and he mostly got it right.

'Run onto the ball because if you don't you will get hurt.'

'Do not, ever, take a dummy. The man with the ball is the one you want.'

'One round the legs and one over the top.'

'The blind side is the biggest weakness in football.'

'Back 'im up for goodness sake.'

'If you run out, keep going.'

'Train like you want to play.'

We won four grand finals in four years, and were known as Pearce's Girls; and while this was a huge compliment to which I will readily admit to this day, Pearce's coaching was also about life. He talked about the exaltation of youth, told us to be grateful for our fitness, and to dig deep when it was necessary. He rounded this up eloquently;

'You girls don't know how lucky you are. Wish I was eighteen again.'

Since mum had died I had clung onto work and football; they gave me stability, mateship, and a sense of okayness; of hard work, and of belonging to something special. But then things changed; I got a busted knee and shortly after I needed that hardware to hold my back into place.

And so my trade and football were taken away from me - I know; I'm also about to head outside to cry. All I had left were old rivers and birdwatching; the only things I could reach for; a default for longing for belonging, and to work out a new meaning.

My warm and caring history of riverbanks, motels and home-cooked meals, along with the trade and football, blew away in a wind of change. It was a strong wind that made me lose my primary school confidence, and Dubbo became stifling. I wanted out.
8

The people on the rivers in western New South Wales are known for one thing and one thing only. Not for their production of fine merino wool, their heritage architecture, or their straight fences, no, they are recognised by the UN, NATO and by the WHO for their valuable contributions to global stability. Their dedication to peacemaking, peacebuilding and peacekeeping in their communities has been enshrined in a piece of resolution 24b: which states, ' Come and enjoy a piece of utopia on the Barwon/Darling; you'll be safe'. It declares to all that, although the Northern Hemisphere is a little way north from western New South Wales, they will get the Willy's Jeep out, mount the .22 and safeguard the security and freedom of its member states. The headquarters for the World Health Organisation has also been moved from Geneva to Bourke so their officers could advise travellers on the dangers of eating feral pigs, show them the best way to cook Murray Cod, and how to tell the difference between a dove and an emu. I wonder why it was then, with this impressive record of protection, generosity and human spirit, that at the very first station on the Barwon River I called at, I was told to buzz off.

Two blokes were working sheep in the yards and I hoyed out well before I got to them. This is a respect thing, and one must wait to be asked over, besides if you waltz in, a blue cattle dog may tear you into little pieces. They looked up and I walked over.

'Good morning, just going down the river, do you mind if I leave the boat and walk down to your mailbox, leave a couple of letters?'

'No. Get out. Now. _Come behind Blue_.'

'But...'

'Nope, on yer way, don't want you here. _Blue, I'm warning you_ ; _sit!_ ' Whack; sound of yelping.

I was completely stunned. It's not like I had asked for petrol, which was one of the eighty-seven reasons I didn't have a motor, or his cold beer.

I said, 'For heaven's sake settle down. What about UNICEF, DNA and FAQ?'

'You're an idiot. And I own the next seventeen miles of river front, so don't even think about camping on my land. Now get out.'

I said that I was not an idiot and to take it easy, and it's okay, I wouldn't want to camp on his side of the river if it was the last side of the river left in the universe and by the way, don't worry about the sugar I'm about to put in your ute's petrol tank because you just have to flush the engine and it won't take long anyway.

'What was that mate?'

'Just saying I won't be in a rush to camp on the river bank.'

I knew that confrontation makes my guts go into knots, and being too scared to say so is one of my strengths. It's always afterwards, when I am home with the door bolted, that I think of those biting come-back lines, like; ' _Your perspicacity, though largely incorrect, at this point in time anyway, is the by-product of your own insecurities.'_ Have no idea what that means. Maybe one day I will be stupid enough to say this to a real person. Doubt it. However, it was his place, and therefore he could tell me to go away.

My churning guts, stiff upper lip and I walked as proudly as we could back to the boat. I paddled away quickly because he wasn't good enough for me to drift near his place. I was shattered and felt so let down. I was sure I would survive, but what the hell, this is the River; this is the Australian Bush. Afterwards and it's always afterwards isn't it, I thought of things to say. When the tent was bolted I thought of one; _So you weren't handed out all your faculties at the one time then? Still waiting for a few, like humility, decency, not-to-mention manners?_

Not in the remainder of this trip, nor in seven more Darling River travels (or wandering about the world over the following fifty years), have I met anyone as unfriendly as he had been.

I called in to a station on the right bank and asked the same letter-posting question, and after staying three weeks with the most gorgeous family ever invented, they finally agreed to let me go back to the river. The Wilcox family, I owe you. Not only for the genuine welcome, the kindness, the hot food, and the lift into town (and to the post office), but also for the restoration of a belief in kindness to strangers. The cold beers helped as well, let's be honest about this. Son Paul, whose birthday was on the 28 May, same as mine, was also born in the same year as me; 1952. It was a sign, I tell you. I'm going back there one day. Just plonk my kit down, knock on the door and say, _Hi, remember me? I'm living here with you now._

A little way before Brewarrina, and still a bit nervy about approaching sheep yards, I called in to the Collerwaroy Station yards, and James Neal said, 'Hey river fella welcome to you. Why don't you stay with us for a while?'

I did so for three weeks and Jim's wonderful hospitality kept me centred in a belief in mankind, togetherness, and pretending to work hard.

First, I became a burr-chipper, which may sound simple and monotonous but it's not at all. It was a job to aspire to, and one that initially required a high degree of focus. You had to concentrate so as to miss your shins with a sharpened hoe and to dodge brown snakes that were curled up in the shadows trying to get cool. But there was great beauty in this job and after yabbering to the other chippers for a while, you settled in to a dream state of head down and chip burrs. It got to the point where skill and confidence met, shook hands and were best-friends for life, bonded to each other in emotional stability, so much so that when a brown snake was sighted, you just paused in your rhythm until it slithered to the side and then you kept going. And the Bathurst Burrs we chipped lay on their sides, like massive rainforest trees that had been felled by men in orange safety helmets using long-bladed chainsaws. Back-cuts, widow-makers, springboards; all became common terminologies for us. Some of the straighter burr-trunks were trimmed, barked and sawn into twenty-foot billets, and lay there waiting to be snigged into the sawmill. _Couple of hundred super in that lot Bill. I dunno, I wish them burr-chippers would slow down. Man can't keep up._ Then when it was almost dark you attempted to stand tall. If we all had done this together our backs would have sounded like hail on corrugated iron.

It was also shearing time at Collerwaroy, my first woolshed in action, and the shearers did something similar with the lower back thing in their first couple of days. I did some yard work like penning sheep, dipping and branding them when they were shorn all white and wrinkly, and looking like a cross between a featherless cockatoo and a new puppy. I threw dust over me so that it would look like I had worked hard, and felt all station hand and important.

Then I saw the shearers and they had the toughest job on the planet, always done with the doubled-over bending of the back. Maybe sheep could be trained to hop up on a table. It is poetry to watch shearers at work. The great beauty in their movements and their concentration travels through the air like a verse of Henry Lawson. Or maybe it was the continual buzzing of the cutters, droning me to sleep in a lullabyllic rhythm of admiration. And eat; my goodness could these shearers eat. Smoko was beef and pickle sandwiches, fruit cake and milky tea from a 44 gallon drum. I saw the cook empty the teapot leftovers into a gully outside the kitchen window, where it would then flow into the Barwon, which is really the Darling, making the milky-tea colour, the one you can see at Wentworth when it meets the blue Murray. Ever tried to lift a 44? Even an empty one will make your poofle valve extend so far that washers could be snipped off. I saw one of the cooks lift a full 44 gallon drum and still no-one believes me.

The floor boards where shearing takes place are brown and shiny from the lanolin that comes out of the wool. A sort of dark brown burnish that comes from many years worth of fat sheep being dragged across on their backsides. And don't leave it too late in your life till you feel a shearer's hands. You have to ask first of course. It may be seen as a bit forward if you walk along the board stroking shearers' hands. Me, being a West Dubbo boy, did not pursue such social rules. I walked along the boards each morning re-introducing myself, touching any protruding smooth bits. Hands that are calloused, hands that are hardened by the years of toil and independence; hands that are creamy smooth.

The boss of the board showed me how to hang on to a sheep. He said if you hang on too tightly, they'll struggle and you'll wear out very quickly, and probably not shear well.

'It's a hold when you're not holding. You must give them leeway to think they could break free if they chose.' He also pointed out the Ringer, and said not only does he shear the most sheep, but when the bell rings for knock-off times, he'll be going so fast it will take him five sheep to stop.

After work I played doubles euchre, and Jim and I took on anyone brave enough to take the challenge. Calling a suit and hoping like crazy that kitty and your partner would get you three tricks was normal procedure. Most nights I also managed to fall asleep during a game.

One night, the wild pigs came and ripped open one of my tin trunks, and ate all of my food. The dogs howled and carried on, but they were chained and could do nothing except back flips. I like wild pigs, such endearing creatures. I vowed I would get even.
9

I hitched a ride into Brewarrina with a truck carrying logs - huge logs leftover from a swan's nest, plus a few Bathurst Burr trunks - on their way to the mill, chained down and secured with heavy iron bars. There was no room inside the cabin and the driver pointed to the top of the logs. I scrambled up among the bark and dust and pretended I was riding Malibus. I thought that if one of those bars unhooked, the chain would send me flying into outer space, or I would be squashed by rolling logs. I thought that life was good to let me be bouncing along a dusty road going to see a new town with something special to see; the Aboriginal Fish Traps in the Barwon River.

These fish traps are a complex arrangement of stone fish traps and walls, nearly half a kilometre in length. They are built on a rock bar next to where the town of Brewarrina is now situated. These fish traps are possibly thousands of years old. In _Dark Emu,_ Bruce Pascoe states that the fisheries "... _rank among some of mankind's earliest constructions."_

An extraordinary mob of people built and maintained this brilliant construction that traps fish and it shows a detailed knowledge of engineering, physics, water ecology and fish migration. It is also recorded as a place of coming together of many tribes to share fish and culture. Just above this icon, this human endeavour from millennium past, this creation that possibly pre-dates the Pyramids is another stunning man-made structure; a concrete weir. Well done boys. And this weir is a barrier to native fish, which means, according to the fish who try to migrate, there are now two separate rivers. Peter Dargin in his _Aboriginal Fisheries of the Darling-Barwon Rivers,_ gives detailed information on the history of these fisheries. His comment on the closeness of the weir is also a tad more pointed than mine. When I came down later and dragged the boat around the considerate and spectacular weir, I saw two Aboriginal kids amongst the white water of the fish traps. They were using a wire-netting tree guard with a hose around the top rim, to trap fish in the backwaters of the pools in amongst the sort of circular rock fish traps. They wore gloves and reached down and scooped out the fish by the gills. These kids belonged here; they were a part of the river; and themselves.

There was a small group of us at an hotel in Brewarrina, just having a quiet beer. Just sitting; talking about stuff. And we decided that the boss lady was an attractive woman; a fairly easy and universal decision. She had a teenage daughter who helped out in the bar, and she too was really pretty. There was a young jackaroo scattered over a barstool like a daddy-long-legs spider, in his blue singlet and Akubra. He was wearing nothing else. When he stood, all lanky arms and legs, he swayed like a tall tree in a breeze. Bets were taken as to how long it would be before he crashed to the floor and would therefore be loaded onto a lorry and carted away to a sawmill. The same mill that would cut logs from a swan's nest, trimmed Bathurst Burrs, and from a truck-load of logs. He leaned across, somehow, and said to our attractive mother, 'Your daughter, sheeze beautiful.'

He said this in a very polite manner, nothing crude or otherwise inappropriate, and it was obvious praise that any of us might have said, being in the presence of such great beauty. Except we were too scared to say this, because when you get older, commenting on the beauty of young teenage girls has risks, particularly when the teenager's mother is close by. Or the police. And perhaps at that point it could be observed that he was also drunker than we. The mother thanked him very much for saying so and went about her work in the bar. Then, our swaying jackaroo bent closer, pointed and said to her, 'You must have been beaudiful once.'

Several thoughts came to mind. For example, _Flee you idiot while you are still able to do so._ Why would you say that? We, who were nearby and therefore within firing range, swallowed hard and widened our eyes, waiting to see the expected verbal dressing down, and visual it would be. Our attractive mother went slightly pink to the cheeks, tilted her head in acknowledgement, and went about her work. Those of us who still considered being alive the preferred option and still wanting to remain so, discussed that this may have been quite a dangerous thought for him to have said out loud, particularly when added soon after the teenage beauty comment, and we decided that the front bar away from spider man was a safer bet. Thinking about it later, he didn't mean to be inconsiderate at all. He was just saying to her that she must have had her daughter's beauty when she too was at that age, with a hint that indeed she was still beautiful now. But it did not come out like that. And her grace in accepting his comment, unthoughtful as it appeared to be, gave her greater beauty. Lucky he's still alive the fool.

I can sit and watch people all day, even without beer or a half naked jackaroo who hands out lavish praise. But the skill of watching, interpreting and enjoying, which was part of our instruction in being raised in West Dubbo also extended to animals. In particular, the sheep dogs that belonged to Vern and Judith Kesby, of The Rocks, Brewarrina.

There was Bull, a big boofheaded blue cattle dog. He was quiet, confident and not prone to erratic stupidity; friendly with some reserve, his own man, and the Boss of all the Dogs. Top dog, literally. Honest, gentlemanly and had integrity. An excellent candidate to be leader of the country. His son Billy, however, was the opposite. He was a galloping galoot, gangly and overly gregarious. Maybe his name should start with G. He would leap up and slobber all over your face, not leaving any piece dry. You felt very clean after a visit from Bill. You just needed a beach towel and some moisturiser. Or a woolly sheep. He would then run in circles, duck, bob, and weave, like he was on his way to score a try. To sum up, young and stupid; one who would settle with a couple of beltings, pig rips and a few more summers. He was erratic and spent others' money on esoteric rubbish. Probably be given the Arts Portfolio. Rocky had white feet and was obviously related to a dove, one like Noah had in a little cage ready to do that special job. Something to do with a message of love and peace that involved an olive tree. Maybe she had snuck a small branch on board before they set sail so when Noah said to find land etc., she just made out he had flown for miles, probably hid in a pub, had a shandy, looked at her watch, then slipped out through a porthole. _Here you go No, look what I found._ One very clever bird.

Rocky was a good yard dog and followed orders quickly. Though at times he let the mob stay restless and on edge. One day a couple of ewes stared him down, and stamped their little feet while doing so. Perhaps they didn't like the smell of olive oil. He was the boss when Bull was chained and because of the copious olive trees he had planted, was clearly aiming for the Senate on a Greens ticket. Gundy had yellow feet and was clearly part-canary, the ones miners use.

Gundy is third top dog and patiently waits for the crown. He wants it badly, above all else. He's a very determined Leader-in-waiting. He has no policies, can't front the media and continually whistles, but will have a difficult time if he gets it because he was trodden on by something huge when he was a pup and consequently has a dodgy back. He is also a bit arrogant, gutless, and doesn't communicate well with bitches. Obviously only opposition leader until his party ditches him. Matey is like tits on a bull or pockets in a singlet. He's the one at sheepdog trials who would always run right between a mob and cause chaos, and the owner would have said, _My dog has a special talent,_ and then yell, _'Split'em Matey!'_

Matey will not work without Rocky and likes it when Rocky belts the living daylights out of him. Also, when he sees a rifle, he squeals and runs under the truck. He would be an interesting subject to do Psychology PhD on. Wouldn't take long, you could lay him on a couch while you had a glass of red wine and made notes. _Now Matey, tell me about your doghood_. Sip sip. Matey spikes his fur, has an ear stud and cruises of a Friday night. There was talk that he was into leather, masks and handcuffs. A perfect candidate for a safe inner city seat, well away from the practicalities of the bush. He only drinks lattes and eats small meals served on large plates, with squiggles of colourful semi-liquid from unknown sources placed across the food. He will be Assistant to the Minister for Arts, or a lobbyist for the Minister for anti-Discrimination, the Homeless, and Sexual Health.

Old Red is Matey's best friend, one who doesn't give him a flogging each morning before breakfast. Old Red is currently on a disability pension because he has to run away and quench his thirst every ten seconds. Probably makes himself thirsty with all that running. A continuous water-cycle of thirstiness. He had been overheated when he was a working dog and now can only do short bursts, and laps water like a chook sips; little and often. He has to go to the Department doctor every six months so they can see if he's tricking just to claim his worker's compensation payments, which come as vouchers to redeem at a butcher's shop.

Old Red is old school, and retired as Leader of the Country Party because the media, who shorten the first word of each political party, such as the Libs for Liberals and Nats for the Nationals, always headlined him. His daughters thought it quite funny and even progressive, but he was having none of it. 'If a bloke can't be called for the deceitful politician he really is then don't label me.'

Little Red Dog used to bark at night. There was talk amongst the other dogs that she thought she was an owl. One evening during a particularly noisy session, she also did something very naughty; she bit a sheep. After a detailed discussion with the boss, Little Red does not hoot at night and she does not bite sheep. Love, tenderness and understanding are wonderful inducements to change habits; so is a long-handled shovel. She is now a diurnal bird who wears red synthetic clothes; says she has an allergy to wool. She also favours the politics of Eastern Europe and is often found under the bed.

One morning I helped Vern lower the pump next to the river because he said the citrus trees needed a drink. This clump of trees on the top of the riverbank had a levee bank to keep the water out when the river broke its banks. Vern said, 'What we do is pump the water inside the levee to keep the water in. Give them a proper drink.'

How confusing for the levee bank. _Hey mum, something's not right. I'm feeling wet on the wrong side._

Sitting in an open boat meant I was exposed to all types of weather. Some days the icy wind would make trees bend and kiss the ground; the grasses would be flattened, and shivering birds had their dresses blown over their heads. It also meant violent storms. Why didn't I find shelter? Under a tree you think? The cracking thunder, green clouds and lightning bolts could smash trees or toss their massive branches around like twigs and this meant I stayed in the middle of the river-soaked and cold but relatively alive. Some days the heat was so fierce it burned holes in my cheeks. Sun-block hadn't been invented and I wore no hat or shirt and when this stylish fashion choice was added to four years of working on roofs, around fifteen of running around a riverbank in West Dubbo, both similarly attired, meant that nowadays I am a frequent visitor to the Royal Brisbane Hospital. The pain associated with having sun cancers cut out does not come from the actual operation, or from worrying about the pathology results; it's the needles beforehand. A needle in the side of the face, on an eyelid, or between the shoulder blades is a powerful lesson. When I'm in the canoe nowadays, all you see is a paddle poking out of a bundle of clothes.

It was now December and I escaped back to Dubbo. This was not exactly a move to a high altitude snow-covered geographical region, because had you ever been to Dubbo in the summertime you would know that the term 'heat wave' was invented there. While I was there I had a conversation with an old footy mate that challenged my set beliefs, and he gave me a book that would later change my life.
10

My Dubbo footy mate and I had grown up (that may only apply to one of us) together, had played football, done a trade, and generally knocked about. He got married, bought a house, and was in a cycle of work, stay at home and poverty. He had never travelled and said he was happy to use the footsteps of others' expectation to live his life by. I thought this to be philosophical yet stifling, and while it seemed boring and scary, there was still something underneath my rejection that niggled; a confusing set of beliefs based on not much else but fear. Maybe he had it all; the domestic bliss thing, and true love?

We were having a boy's afternoon out; a beer at the Royal Hotel. His wife and I used to go out and we were still close.

'How's your gorgeous wife? She been missing me?'

'Not likely. Sandra has changed. Not only does she now prefer a good looking man, she only likes settled people. You see many snakes on the river?'

'Hundreds.'

'Really? That many?'

Although we both usually talked rubbish, there was a serious element that was based on honesty and acceptance. 'Apart from the thousands of snakes, I'm still looking out for other stuff in life and I seem to do things indirectly with a direct approach; a focus and then unfocus, like when you want to see something in the distance, you look to the side of that thing.'

'You done? On this river trip, you meet anyone special? Find out where you belong?'

'No, I haven't met anyone special. Maybe when I return. But it's a good trip just the same, just drifting, and camping on the riverbank. Where do I belong? I don't know. Maybe living on a riverbank?'

'Could do a lot worse, you know. I belong here, in Dubbo. I know that. It feels right. And I belong to Sandra. I like being married'

Now here was a new concept; belonging to someone else. At first glance it said trapped, and it said control. How does one belong to another? Wouldn't you lose your independence? Your individual self? What if I did meet someone special? How would I know? Would she say to me, Hey, I'm your someone special and I am here to trap you. Yet hearing him talk about belonging to someone else and being settled did spark something. It sparked a longing that was wrestling with a fear.

After my footy mate and I talked a bit about his life, the struggles of nine to five, and the constant debt, he said something that threw me.

'Sometimes I wish I could be like you. I think about what you're doing and how you do it by yourself and I wonder what it must be like not to be tied down. You just roam about; it must feel free. Hey, I found a book for you. Read this and you might find some answers.'

Hang on a minute; forget the book, I'm the one who is just beginning to think you have maybe got it all; the security, the beautiful wife, a wholesomeness and belonging in life that only comes when you commit, and here you are saying, you like how I do stuff? Maybe I am doing something right? Maybe we all are somehow right, doing what we're doing?

Later I flicked through the book he gave me, and found it too scary. It was Frankl's _Man's Search for_ _Meaning,_ and his story about life in a concentration camp didn't excite me and I read it later.

_'...if you can get the right book at the right time you taste joys-not only bodily, physical, but spiritual also, which pass one out above and beyond one's miserable self, as it were through a huge air, following the light of another man's thought. And you can never be quite the old self again..._ T.E. Lawrence writing to his mother in 1910.

Lawrence's letter about getting a book at the right time should be compulsory reading in maternity wards, in the terms and conditions on all education enrolment forms; and as part of wedding vows. The being ready for a book became hurtingly apparent during the year I spent in the Macquarie Marshes after this river trip. Bit of a shame it took so long but I'm not sure what makes for being ready. __ Something must have happened to your mind. There is also an opposite to Lawrence's comment, and that is that books also know when you are ready for them. There you'll be, just pottering about camp, and you'll look up and remember that the new packet of tea was back there in the boat, and then as you rummage there, you will amazingly see a book, and think, Hey I might have a go at this one. And the book will smile to itself.

Reading travel books is to travel without moving, meditation or drugs. These books become best friends, even mentors, and they take you along with their weary travellers when they dodge wild animals, when they grin in victory, and when they become self-important. You are there when the lion attacks (but you escape, unharmed), you marry the princess (the one who has trouble waiting for the wedding night), and you pin the bravery award on your navy blue singlet.

Books and imagination; gifts that give forever. And desert explorers and adventurers fascinated me. Sir Richard Burton redefined what a middle finger should be used for. And the list of languages he spoke reads like a comprehensive list of the countries of the world. He was an experimenter in life and a leader by example, and his travels made me dream deeply. Burkhardt and Petra; Edward Lear and the Holy Land; Thesigar and the Empty Quarter, Doughty and Arabia; Freya Stark and Everywhere; and of course T.E. Lawrence. Desert adventures without leaving the tent.

There was another type of book that I tried to learn about life from, but these didn't have the same oomph. The seventies saw the rise of the self-help book and I did make an effort - but they usually made me feel bad. I started Kopp's _If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him!_ , and it seemed different in a comforting way but it confused me. I wanted someone else to teach me stuff because I couldn't do it myself and here's this bloke saying that, ' _While seeking to be taught the Truth the disciple learns only that there is nothing that anyone else can teach him_...' and that's five pages before the book even starts! Here I was, insecure, lonely, unsure, anxious, and needing guidance from an experienced person, one who had lived life, one who had The Knowledge, and he's telling me what? That I can do it by myself? Please.

When I had planned this trip, which was about the same time as I remembered where I'd left my last nappy, it was all I could think about. The Darling River was to birdwatching, fishing, and sleeping on the dirt in solitude as it was equal to all that I lived for. Just before I started this river trip, I had asked my best mate Peter Porch if he'd like to come along and he was keen, but then a short time later I said, 'I have to go alone.'

In this summertime in Dubbo, I had made up my mind to say something to Peter; to say sorry about me going down the river by myself after I had asked him to come with me, because I know this caused him pain. I called around and when I found out that he wasn't in, I felt relieved, not because I didn't want to see him, it's just that if I did, I wouldn't really know what to say. He was away travelling. I was also relieved because I wouldn't have to face myself. I had no idea how you apologise for anything, let alone how to atone for being a bad mate. So my guilt stayed and I went back to the river with a tin trunk full of new books and hopes of meeting someone special.

My boat was ten foot long, flat-bottomed, and had solid waterproof tin trunks in which to store my gear. Paul Ivers, a West Dubbo mate who also did an apprenticeship same time as I did, made the tin trunks. A large one had an angle so it fitted in the front slope of the flat-bottomed boat; a thinner one snugged in behind my seat, and a smaller one for first aid. On this 1976 trip I took a Band-Aid and two pain-killers. Now when I hit the water in the red canoe, I have a 60L drum specifically for first-aid and medical stuff. It resembles a stocktake inventory at a pharmacy. Age is a great leveller. I still have the tin trunks. They are a little battered and repaired; but still loved.

I sat on a wheat bag and leant on a pillow and let the current take me. A little correction here or there with the paddle was all that I needed. I found it peaceful drifting and I had chosen not to use a motor because of the cost and availability of fuel, the inevitable breakdowns, and the noise. The speed I travelled was between zero and four hours a day and I had as much time as I wanted. The joys of youth. I measured distance in time, not speed, because I never had a watch and because the large orange thing in the sky was a good enough timepiece. At night I didn't need either a watch or the sun. I slept nearly all of the night hours.

The food I took was brown rice, wholemeal flour, porridge, powdered milk, syrup, butter (amazing how long it lasts out of the fridge), and a stack of vegetables, like parsnips, onions, pumpkin, potatoes and chocolates. I bought chocolates when I could and hid them in the boat. Not as silly as it sounds. I ate a variety of animal life; basically anything I could kill-mussels, reptiles, a wide selection of mammals, fish and insects. Greens were never a problem-thistles, clover and pig weed were common and I either ate them fresh or added them to a cooked meal.

Drifting quietly gave me time to notice things. Did you know that the surface of a river can have at least five different wind patterns at the same time? That on a still day, eucalypt leaves move? Or that many species of birds nest in the same tree as a raptor because they get protection? Coolabah tree areas have a short fine green carpet under them whereas the gum tree inside corners, have long green bunches of grass as a ground cover. The open clay sloping banks were mostly grey and sometimes crowded with exposed roots; bare certainly but still earning their keep. Animals hid inside these tangled roots, such as foxes, snakes, goats or at the water's edge, water rats.
11

_'In a serious fight, males lean back onto their tail and kick at each other...they also use their heavily muscled forelimbs and long claws in wrestling bouts; fights are often resolved when one male is thrown to the ground in a headlock. Humans are at risk of serious injury from a male Eastern Grey kangaroo if they approach one guarding females.'_ Van Dyck, S. and Strahan, R. (2008) _The Mammals of Australia Third Edition_

The Barwon River was over the banks courtesy of heavy Queensland rain and displayed one of the great cycles of nature in western New South Wales. The brown flood water was swift in its main flow, which was marked by debris, and crept silently amongst the grass and gum trees.

The competition for a patch of dry ground was intense and sometimes I had to fight for a space. I would select a likely spot and then go for a wander to see who else was around. Late one afternoon, I looked and listened. A noise came from some long white grass, and it was a shuffle. Shuffles are usually safe; I like shuffles. They don't speak of urgency, just a casualness that comes with truckloads of confidence. Could be an echidna pottering about, a young diprodoton; or maybe a very large kangaroo.

A buck grey kangaroo unfurled himself from his grass resting place and stood up right in front of me. This bloke had a fob watch on a chain and cloth patches on his elbows; very Men's' Club, with private rooms, friendly women and cheap drinks. I asked did he mind and apparently he did, because he stood even taller up on his tippy toes and tail to be eight foot tall and he made that cough that kangaroos make when they are preparing to attack. I suggested we talk about this, boy to man, but he wasn't listening. He leaned his head back a little to protect his eyes, sucked his testicles up, and came for me. His front paws were curled into a gripping motion. I had read what a kangaroo does to a farm dog that has made him spill his scotch and ice. The kangaroo will pick the dog up with his front paws, lean back on his tail and then slice the dog open from the throat to the groin with one of the middle toenails on his giant foot. And if they were in the water, because that's where kangaroos like to defend from, the kangaroo will not only rip the no-idea-where-did-that-come-from dog open, he would then push the dog under water.

Not needing an op for open heart, prostate removal and a knee replacement all done with the one cut, I chose the only course of action left open; I turned and ran. I stopped about twenty feet away because the ground had stopped shaking, and eyeballed him, _Listen mate,_ _wise move you didn't keep coming, you don't realise how lucky you were_. I then saw the real reason why; nearby in the grass, just lolling around drinking champagne and smoking Gitanes held in those long slender cigarette holders, were his girls. Protecting your life's pleasures is fair enough. I strolled back toward this beautiful grey fellow and thought I would teach him a lesson. Standing about fifteen foot away (you have to respect personal space), I shaped up and said _, Listen buddy, no-one threatens me and gets away with it. Let's see what you've got pretty boy._

I now know not to make eye contact with a cranky kangaroo, but back then I was young and naïve. Now I'm just old. He gave me a look of disdain and in one huge bound he landed about six inches in front of me, making dust swirl up. In the dusty shadow, because the sun had now been blocked, I could see his white chest fur which I noted was in wavy patterns like seaweed underwater having been swirled by the current. Being at eye-level with his chest also meant being close to his forearms. A male kangaroo has immense power in his pounding thighs and to see one in full flight is rippling muscle magic, but they also have great strength in their upper body. They have magnificent shoulders. His girls, all wearing blue eye-shadow, dark red lipstick, and long eyelashes, urged him on. _If you really loved us,_ they said, _You would slice him._ He grabbed for me; that's right, we can see who's really in charge here, and I ducked and ran again; today's preferred defence strategy. When I was three miles away I turned and told him he was lucky yet again, and not to be so presumptuous that next time I wouldn't go on with it.

I was happy to share the island with these selfish kangaroos, because I knew that with a moment's notice I could take that buck down, if I wanted to, but why would I do that. It would mean that I would then have to be the new man about the house, and my good nature and clean thinking stopped me from having any imagery concerning me and six does. However, I was wary of snakes on an island. Even though I had seen thousands of them through the Macquarie Marshes, and had picked them up for fun, it suddenly dawned on me that my tent didn't have a floor, and I was surrounded by water. Which not only meant the possibility of landlocked echidnas, small diprotodons, and a few randy kangaroos, but also desperate snakes. I understand now that using a tent without a floor wasn't one of my better choices for gear to take camping on a riverbank. I used a folded tarp inside as a groundsheet and tucked it up around the edges, and now a reality check indicated that this wouldn't keep out an ant let alone a twelve-foot reptile.

Australian snakes aren't poisonous; and there's a great party trick right there. You could win millions. What the gullible people will say is, 'Of course some of them are poisonous; the adder, taipan, the browns. What are you talking about? Australia is crawling with them.' But no, they are not poisonous; they are venomous, and you are now very rich. You're welcome. Australia has twenty-one different species of deadly snake and they have all evolved to root out birdwatchers.

This warm evening, just on dark, when that light blue and orange glow on the horizon softly treats you to memories of being asleep in your cot, I sat near a cosy fire, feeling quite chuffed that I was sharing the ground with several grey kangaroos that I had let live peacefully.

My lighting arrangement, apart from a small fire, was a kerosene lantern. Such lanterns are cheap to run, lend a distinct colonial feel and therefore have some historical significance, but as an item of practical luminance, are absolutely useless because they work in reverse. The yellow flickering flame is the lowest light output known to humans. Yet if you are over there looking in, the light circles the lantern and therefore the carrier, like a halo, and makes him a clearly visible target. And of course you have the added bonus of a flame that could do serious damage if spilled. Flames living on kerosene do that, they run and find their own level. That's what the Egyptians used for the foundations of their pointy stone block things.

'Hey Abdul, what was that measurement?'

'Couldn't see Anwar, too much flame. Can we use water next time?'

I picked up the lantern to look for a spoon and saw three snakes next to my tent door. While snakes will usually leave you alone if you do the same, except if you wear riding boots, I found it a little disconcerting. So you're outside my bed for now, but what happens when the cold night air seeps down and you three need some warmth. As I contemplated this and tried to watch the three moving snakes with the yellow light that cast black shadows, I saw another six snakes. Black against the night, and oozing into my ancient fear of serpents. All nine snakes were about two foot long and were a sort of dark brown with a black band around their necks. _Hi kids, where's your mum and dad?_ Probably some non-venomous species, but how would I know that, I'm only a beginner birdwatcher. I sat on a log wondering what to do and thought, I have come this far without being squeezed or bitten, so I'll be alright.

I walked to the boat for something, stepped over this lot, and saw five more on the way, including a four foot brown and a Tiger Snake. Nest, Bed, Den, Knot, Slither, Pit; take your pick; there was a bloody stack of them. A Wriggle of snakes; a Fear of Snakes sounds better. I decided to sleep in the boat for that night, just to see if being cold and cramped would make me appreciate life a little better. Like when you were a kid and your mother said, quite often, _Eat those crusts and stop being so wasteful because they would feed twelve starving kids in Africa. For a month._ Now I appreciate all manner of food scraps, as well as the privilege of sleeping in an aluminium boat on a cold night, Also Known As; being in a Refrigerator.

Next morning after I had thawed, greased my knee joints, shoulders, and neck vertebrae, I thought I'd done with this hiss of snakes; but no. As I started to push the boat into the river to start the day's drifting, and to possibly sleep a while after the painkillers kicked in, under the bull-nose front there was one more snake; brown and six foot long, and he had a go at me. He reared up, opened his mouth, made a horrible sound like a cat with a sore throat, and lunged at me. I sidestepped and before he could turn and kill me, I stepped on his head, bent down and picked him up. He thrashed about, his body lashing me as he tried to break free of my grip. This was the angriest animal I had ever seen. If he ever took on a blue boar I'd back him to win. But I was feeling aggressive too; sleeping in a cold-room with sides of beef and slabs of beer followed by an unprovoked attack has that effect, and it probably saved me. 'Hey you mongrel, you started it.' I flung him way out into the river, jumped into the boat and paddled hard.

My obsession for birdwatching forced me to do risky things that seemed normal then, now remembered as perhaps unsafe, and giving rise to the same reflective summary as the one made after stalking a blue pig, or tossing an angry snake into the river; and surviving. But I had to weigh this against living a life that lets caution stop me from being adventurous. And then when I sit in the old folk's home, because my family doesn't love me any more, I don't want to say, _Wish I would have done..._ whatever it was I let caution stop me from doing. Or, if I have too many scars to count, a bent leg, and various hunks of stainless steel, several screws and pins holding my frame together I might say, _Wish I wouldn't have..._

A male darter flew off his nest which had eucalyptus leaves hanging from its edges. I've seen darters flying around with secateurs, snipping away, and when they finish decorating they become non-secateured darters. These leaves were fresh and this indicated horticultural knowledge and possibly a nest with eggs; therefore a nest that must be investigated; a reasonable sequitur. If you have the birdwatching affliction, you will understand this compulsion. You will say straight-out, _Of course, climb to the nest, what else?_ The tree that this nest was in was surrounded by swirling water thereby giving security for the forthcoming darter children, but possible not for anyone foolish enough to try to climb it. My main safety concern was that standing on the boat to reach up to start the climb could mean the flat-bottomed aluminium tinnie could tilt and end on the bottom of the river; and take me for the ride.

And so I took a safer option; I tied the boat up to the shore, stripped off, swam out in the brown torrent that was full of eddies, backwashes and undertows, and scrambled up the tree. The last bit was a sit-down shimmy along a dead branch, all the while tucking a few items to one side, but it was worth it. The tucking and the climb. Two pale blue eggs.

Back on land when I had dried myself, I felt good that I had swum the swirling river and climbed well. I did it twice more that day; to an Egret's nest, and to a Yellow-billed Spoonbill's nest, both with fresh eggs.

Right now, in the same situation, I wouldn't even look at water with that amount of boiling turbulence, let alone swim through it naked and be swept every which way, and get dragged underwater every second stroke. Not to mention being alone on an inland river, climbing shiny smooth-barked gum trees in a stiff wind. I would look up and say, _Hmmm, nice nest,_ and go about making a billy of tea. And then stay wrapped in a warm blanket, the same warm blanket to be used later as I reflected about me and Hemmingway after the blue boar idiocy. In the nursing home. Same deal with the picking up of snakes. And I may let caution rule decisions yet. Is that what getting old does to you? I can see my future calculated risks involving such hair-raising and death-defying extreme daredevil activities such as considering whether to use the butter-knife or one of the sharp chaps. If you lived your life backwards, say starting at around ninety-five, it would be quite stressful, because as you got closer to the stupid years you would be panicking, because you would know how dangerous the things were that you were about to do. Whereas the ordinary way, from the bottom up, the parts of the brain that give you the full details about risky behaviour haven't kicked in yet.
**Part 2: 1977**

The Darling River
12

'... _and as we mounted our horses, I named the river the 'Darling,' as a lasting memorial of the respect I bear the governor.'_ But with no respect for the various names the indigenous people had given this river, such as the Barka, but never mind. And thus, the Darling River was named after Sir Ralph Darling, then Governor of the colony of New South Wales, by explorer Charles Sturt, in 1829.

The current Darling River officially begins where the Culgoa River joins the Barwon River between Walgett and Brewarrina in north-west New South Wales, and then flows nine-hundred and fifteen miles in a South-Westerly direction down the outback of New South Wales to its confluence with the Murray River at Wentworth. The Darling is the slowest flowing river ever invented and its cycles of flood, normal-ish flow, or total dryness, while irregular, unpredictable and possibly annoying, have a rhythm that is necessary to maintain every natural living thing that is out there.

Its water comes from rivers which drain in roughly a westerly direction off the Great Dividing Range in the top third of New South Wales and from the sort-of-usual summer rains from across the lower South-East bit of Queensland; that is, when the government of the day decides to share its summer rain. Queenslanders are a bit funny. As well as their crazy politics, and parochial viewpoint (they think Australia has only got one state and guess which one that might be), they all have two heads. These heads can swivel the full three-sixty and are handy if you attend a sport like tennis, rugby league or one of those fun family Christmases. Darling River people are compassionate towards these poor suckers north of the border, not because of their dodgy heads but because they usually relent and send water down the old river. I know all this because not only do I currently live in the fantastic State of Queensland (and have been in the middle of two major floods), but more importantly, I have been on the Darling several times when it's flooding; and I could see where I'm going and where I've been at the same time.

Locals in the pubs along the Darling will tell you the river winds 3 to 1 as the crow flies, while some say it winds and wriggles at 10 to 1. I have an authenticated set of riverboat figures that I was given from Jack Rabbit Smith of Wilcannia, that relate to river mileages. He typed me a list of river miles from his paddle steamer records that show the distance from Walgett on the Barwon to the Ocean via the Darling and Murray Rivers. For example, from Bourke to Wentworth is 1129 miles by river, and 455 miles along the river road. This is approximately a ratio of 2.5:1. Even though I was given these figures in1977, I did not go into detail with locals between Wilcannia and Wentworth, or during any of the seven later trips. Nothing worse than an outsider coming in throwing knowledge around, correct though it may be. One bloke swore it was seven to one. After winding around all the bends in the Darling, I'm good with that. Let's round off at five to one, and then everyone's happy.

I first learned about the Darling River from my dad. He used to bring its water home for us kids to drink. Dad was actually the inventor of bottled water except he didn't patent his idea. We could have been rich, although Darling water in old brown beer bottles may have been a hard sell. I went from mother's milk to Darling River water then straight onto Resch's Pilsner; nothing interrupting the flow. Dad told me so many stories about the old river it became my obsession. All my school projects were about the Darling; I had no posters of pop stars or sporting heroes, just a 6 x 4 black and white of that old river, showing it curving into the distance. My dreams weren't about going to see the Beatles or playing football for Australia; I only wanted to go and see the Darling River. This love of the Darling River (also started from growing up next to an inland river in West Dubbo. I love Dubbo - have I said that yet?), went into my heart, and made me become a very emotional and often unsound young man. I could weep easily, had an insatiable need to touch things in a particular order before I left my room and I liked to walk with a hip-sway. When I tell people this (about the river; not the other stuff), they remember their appointment in Reykjavik and that they really must hurry because they have to be at the airport at least two weeks before their flight. But occasionally some innocent soul will ask, 'So this Darling, that undrinkable, muddy, isolated, untidy river, why is it so special?'

Ask this at your peril; if you escape in under three weeks you'll be lucky. By the time I finish, you'll be on stress leave. This old river is a link to ancientness of our country; it goes beyond what is known and it lets you be you; that's of course if you want to be you. Quite a few of us would prefer to be someone else. Do not laugh about this; (not the preferences thing) this river offers to you a oneness that is encompassing of time itself. But, be warned, because if you stop to look inwards at what that means, you will lose the gift that is there. It's rude to stare, I learnt that in West Dubbo. Is it a special river to me you say? (Thought that had been cleared up; but nevermind).

Recently, after riding out on my pushbike during a heatwave (the temperatures in Dubbo in the summertime were always taken at midnight, underwater in the river. In other places, like the shade of a Peppercorn tree at Dubbo West Public School, after you shoved the kids out of the way who were rubbing leaves on their hands because they foolishly thought it would lessen the pain when they got six of the best, the thermometer explodes) and collecting discarded soft-drink bottles (some had leftover liquid still in them, so I didn't go thirsty; thanks for being so concerned), I cashed them in and bought the entire Darling River system. The Australian Government and the four relevant states have not been informed as yet and I now give it away; to you. It took quite a few sugar-bags full of bottles. My tummy still gurgles every now and again but I'm alright; thanks again.

Before the first river trip, I was fortunate enough to be given specialist training that enabled me to survive several near-death experiences, how to creep noisily through the bush, and how to be socially unacceptable. To summarise; I grew up in Dubbo.

Fantastic little town, Dubbo, and I am grateful to my upbringing there because it gave me several reasons why I would want to drift down the Darling River. For instance; I could choose any other place on the planet and be better off. I also came to realise that my proven method of coping with anxiety, insecurity and personal trauma by never talking about it, taught to me by a generation who survived a Global Depression, a World War and several grand final losses, could be enhanced if I embraced solitude out there.
13

Did Australia have an inland sea? I agreed with the early explorers:

_...it would appear very conclusive, that either a portion of our distant interior is occupied by a lake of considerable magnitude, or that the confluence of those large streams, the Macquarie, Castlereagh, Gwydir, and the Dumaresq, with the many minor interfluent waters,...forms one or more noble rivers,_ (this would end up as the Darling River) _which may flow across the continent by an almost imperceptible declivity of country_...Botanist extraordinaire and inland explorer Allan Cunningham, quoted by Charles Sturt, fellow inland explorer - in his _Two Expeditions Volume 1, in the years 1828 and1829._

_It would be presumptuous to hazard any opinion as to the nature of the interior to the westward of that remarkable river._ (Obviously, he is referring to the Darling River) _Its course is involved in equal mystery, and it is a matter of equal doubt whether it makes its way to the south coast, or ultimately exhausts itself in feeding a succession of swamps, or falls into a large reservoir in the centre of the island.'_ Charles Sturt writing in early April 1829. _Vol 1, chapter 4_

_...if an opinion may be permitted to be hazarded from actual appearances, mine is decidedly in favour of our being in the immediate vicinity of an inland sea, or lake, most probably a shoal one._ Inland explorer John Oxley, 3 July 1817, contemplating life in the Macquarie Marshes

_...and it was with infinite regret and pain that I was forced to come to the conclusion, that the interior of this vast country is a marsh and uninhabitable._ Same bloke; 7 July 1818, doing the same thing in the swamps of the Lachlan River. He likes going into swamps in Julys.

John Oxley's _Journals of two expeditions into the interior of new south wales, by order of the British government in the years 1817-18._ by John Oxley, surveyor general of the territory and lieutenant of the royal navy with maps and views of the interior, or newly discovered country, is a comprehensive recount of his exploration. These quotes are courtesy of the Project Gutenberg Website.

The notion from the European inland explorers that there was a sea in the interior of Australia was not silly at all, particularly as there used to be a sea there just a little while before they started wandering around. If they would have been a bit earlier, about a hundred million years give or take a day, they would have been able to go fishing; for big things, with flippers. _Got a bite Charles, think she's a bigun._ This sea was called Eromanga and through much of Central Australia you can still see sea shells and sand. The inland sea thing was also a reasonable idea when you see that the current Lake Eyre in the middle of the desert is below sea level, and in a rainy season, waterways north of the Darling's tributaries drain into it.

Then of course in more recent times, the other day really, just over 2.8 million years ago, there was Lake Bungunnia in what is now south-eastern South Australia, south-western New South Wales and north-western Victoria and because this lake covered over 26,000 square miles any of the three explorers could have said, _See, told you so._

Then there is a real and current inland sea; the Great Artesian Basin, that covers much of Queensland, New South Wales and South Australia, except this one is underground and was therefore understandably missed by these explorers. John Oxley was convinced about this inland sea thing, particularly when he came across the Macquarie Marshes, as well as the swamps of the lower Lachlan River. Cunningham's noble river concept was close to the mark as was his comment about its slow-flowing nature due to the flat land. In his early explorations, Charles Sturt too, was sure there must be an inland sea.

Notwithstanding current satellite images clearly showing that there's a large possibility of there not being an inland sea, or the maps I carried in the boat suggesting something similar, I agreed with the inland explorers about there being an inland sea. I considered my belief not denial, because I am one of the most sensible people to ever set foot on the old river. I thought that if you dream something it will come true and so I had no doubt that tricky inland sea was out there. And so it was and I found it; but I was lost at the time so please don't ask me where it is.

I still find it hard to imagine how I got lost floating down the slowest flowing river ever invented; even in flood it occasionally goes backwards. Though I suppose when you potter about in a boat for a thousand miles something is bound to go wrong. However, during this lost time, I found that inland sea, which also included naming rights, and I came up with a beauty. I also had a narrow escape from this sea. Not from briny water and reeds, not from drought, not from sitting upright all bleached and crumbly with webs streaming off my bones, no, the escape was from some weird guys.

Because of the winding nature of the Darling and the current high level in 1977, the water occasionally burst over a low bank and made a shortcut. These were usually quite short, guess that's why they're called shortcuts, and they would cut out a sizeable chunk of the original curving river. And even though water still flowed into this original curving bit of river, it would eventually become a future billabong because when the shortcut was cut low enough it would become the new river course and would therefore leave the curved unloved bit to become a magnificent billabong.

Billabongs are mysterious places. They can have deep black water and become a darkness of reflective stillness, crawling with bunyips and memories of ghosts; and they are amazing ecosystems. The best way to search for billabongs now is to use Google Earth - which wasn't quite ready in 1977 - and move to around 20 kms in height. Start from say Bourke, move downriver and marvel at the curvy river, the billabongs and the flood plains.

On this particular day I was going to meet the Culgoa River. This meant that I would then not be on the Barwon anymore but would be then officially be on the Darling River, and like a certain spot on the Jordan River involving a baptism, I wanted to be cleansed and see white doves bringing messages of hope, love, forgiveness, peace, and Kalamata Olives. I wanted my own piece of magic; I wanted to feel the sensuous ripple as I passed through the Barwon-Darling time warp.

Unfortunately, I got lost and missed it.

I saw a channel rushing out from the right bank and I thought it was one of those billabong-forming shortcuts. I took it and it was a mistake, the only one I have ever made, of course, or would ever make. Taking the shortcut was a big mistake because I got lost and it meant that I missed the actual junction of the Culgoa and Barwon, which is where my Darling River begins.

It took me sixteen days to find my way back to the Darling River and during that time I saw a white kangaroo, four large diprotodons (possibly related to the little ones that live on an island with a cranky kangaroo) and the Lost City of Atlantis. It was an eerie diversion, not so much scary as confusingly adventurous, and brought back an unpleasant memory.

Each day there were several branches to choose from, and common sense told me that if I kept heading left, then I must get back to the main river. But this wasn't so; possibly because common sense was still largely absent from my thought processes, and the amount of water flowing in several directions was making things confusing. I would see a line of trees on the horizon, head for it but then when I got there, either the current swept back to the right towards Papua New-Guinea, or the line of trees was followed by another line of trees. It was like you were walking up a very steep hill and you could see the summit, but when you got there, there would be another summit.

After a while of a feeling somewhere between moderate happiness and needing a change of undies, I relaxed and got into this being lost thing; almost a Well I don't care because it would all work out. I began to get an excitement that came out as, _T. Pritchard, Inland Explorer._ Denial and false faith can override fear and lead into relief, or oblivion.

I came to an inundated tea tree forest and in every tree fork, the first one just above water level anyway, there was a black duck's nest. They all had eggs, softly contained in as much down as you would want to sleep in, like in a black swan's nest; one of the normal ones.

As I steered through this forest, gawking at ducks, extra-large wombats, albino kangaroos, lost cities, a low branch leapt across and knocked me out of the boat. I did a backflip-somersault and entered cleanly into the water without a ripple. I'll be off to the Olympics shortly. It was deep, like being in the deep end of a swimming pool, and when I opened my eyes, I thought I was back in the Olympic Pool back in Dubbo when I was ten. I saw a light, not that bright one that apparently greets you when she's all over, but an opaque brown blurred one, and everything felt cool and peaceful. While I was in this new Dubbo swimming pool, I also saw something I thought I had forgotten about; memories of fear and confusion. But you never can forget, because the people lie there; waiting for the right moment to reappear. A door that opens when it chooses.

One evening a stack of us youngsters were all at the swimming pool. A warm night, just messing around, when one of my classmate's father, swam over next to me, grabbed me around the waist and put his hand down the front of my togs. I said, _Hey, don't do that!_ and swam away. I climbed out, burning in the face and feeling disoriented. I ran on the wet concrete, nearly slipped bum over head, got yelled at by the man with the microphone, then jumped into the shallow end. I grabbed onto the edge and started shaking. The nasty man had followed and he grabbed me again, this time around the chest and he held on much stronger, and put his hand down my togs again. I yelled again and struggled fiercely and managed to escape.

I burst up for air and swam after the boat for a couple of hours, then scrambled in, shaking at where my mind had just been. The branch had also cut my knee, and gallons of blood leaked into the bottom of the boat. Maybe I won't make the Diving Team because I would attract sharks, although that would make the diving more watchable.

I raced home, firmly fixed in a sickening level of panic. People aren't allowed to do that to ten year olds are they? And because I had arrived home way early, mum said, _You okay?_ I avoided her eyes because a mother's eyes - not the ones in the back of their head, just the ordinary front ones - can decipher their child's thoughts and emotions in like, one and a half seconds. _Yeah, swallowed some water, feel a bit sick,_ and head down I went into my room and closed the door. This was 1962, and I felt so scared I vomited. Then I heard mum, talking to dad in the kitchen, _Tony's not feeling too good, says he's not hungry._ Within minutes of arriving home, I would usually be in the kitchen scrounging scraps, licking bowls, or raiding the cupboard. I heard Dad say, _Not hungry my foot._ And then I heard his footsteps. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around but couldn't see me; he saw a little quivering rabbit, his black eyes all wide and staring. He said, 'You okay?' I nodded a shivering nod. He knew, and apart from trying to make me talk about what happened, (how could I, it's taken me this long - just over fifty-three years), the next best was for him to be silent and know, to just know that something awful had happened to me, and for him to just be there next to me.

Then, coming out into a massive open lake, undiscovered and therefore un-named, I realised I had found the inland sea. I saw three blokes in a boat, fishing. Being a gregarious sort of chap, I paddled over. The fact that I was worried about my place in the diving team, bleeding to death, or the fact that I, (little old me) had discovered that inland sea that the other dudes couldn't seem to find, had nothing to do with it, I just wanted to have a chat, that's all. And maybe one of them would be a medical officer and be willing to stitch my knee together. But as I got closer, I noticed they weren't moving. They were just sitting there with upright fishing rods, boat moving slightly, staring at the horizon. They weren't dead I could see that, but when I said _, Morning chaps, nice day for a spot of fishing, what?_ they kept looking away from me. One bloke actually moved the oar surreptitiously to keep them facing away. And when I said, _I say lads, I'm a bit lost,_ _and my boat is filling rapidly with blood, which I noticed does have a tinge of blue thereby showing my excellent heritage, could you please help me?,_ they continued to stare straight ahead as I drifted next to them, and the situation began to feel weird. Did being lost make me invisible? Maybe I was dead and only here in spirit form? I knew that bright light was up to no good. Maybe I could hop out and walk on water like that other bloke. Perhaps that would get their attention, though I doubt it. So, as they bobbed, still as statues, I got the hell out of there.

As the discoverer of something, you get naming rights just like the inland explorers did. So that lake just after the tea tree forest, that newly discovered inland sea, is now known as the Olympic Pool of Shame Lake.

I found another strong-flowing left channel, and this one took me back to the Darling River.
14

_My Darling has a spirit and a soul to which she clings_

_The flow of life and death are the cycles that she brings_

_The hopes, dreams and secrets are the stories that she sings_

_But her nature never was a guarantee_

_My Darling is the fountain from which life eternal springs_

_And holds the hope of what will one day be_

_She has a soul that courses through a million other things_

_And a spirit that has found a home in me._

From _My Darling_ by Andrew Hull of Bourke - What I'm talking about.

Some uneducated city folk have decided that the Darling River is undrinkable. They will gladly tell you it's dirty, full of dead bodies and will cause multiple illnesses to those who even think about drinking it. I say the Darling is drinkable, from over the back of the boat, and this assertion, (as well as doing it), along with the admittance of eating European Carp, has caused me more grief than saying that Holden is better than Ford, stating a preference for Navels over Valencias, or that I secretly love Tony Joe White. (The sideburns.)

The Darling's water can appear slightly unsavoury, it really tastes like nectar sucked from a silky-oak flower. As for the body count; my highest tally for one day was nine. They were all swollen, their legs stiffly pointed at strange angles, looking like bloated bagpipes, with a lime-green tinge, semi-circles of white scum emanating in several sensational patterns; a very attractive yet possibly lethal colour scheme. Sheep, goats, pigs, kangaroos or antelopes, doesn't matter; if you drink from next to this lot then yes, the Darling may get you.

The water of the Darling River, away from the dead cows, dead marines and car bodies, has magical properties; once submerged, all base metals turn to gold, coal to diamonds and even a splash on your face will induce time-travel. It is the fountain of youth, the elixir sought after by kings, emperors, and the little old lady down the road.

The Darling is the river widely mentioned in the scriptures (a bloke named John used to pour water over people's heads; up near Bourke I think it was), by Homer (Ulysses didn't sail around the Mediterranean, the Ionian or the Aegean; he actually had all his adventures on the Darling), and on page three of the Kings Cross Whisper, just to the right-hand side of that photo. The Darling's cloudy cool clay content will also give excellent television reception, fix up overdue repayments, has stacks more healing properties than a season pass to Lourdes or a repeat script for pain-killers. Its water makes your skin feel smooth and tight because the clay stays on much better than over-advertised mud from the Dead Sea, Lavender from Provence or Calamine Lotion from West Dubbo. You will never lack a smooth complexion. I seemed to have missed out on all this. People have commented, 'Tony,' they say, 'you look awful; sort of green around the gills. You been swimming in that filthy river water again?'

After a swim in the Darling, I'd stand up, hang my arms out, bent down at the elbow, pretending to be a darter drying its wings. If an eagle flew over and scared me, I would limp away all awkwardly because when you're wet you can't run properly, and as you dragged and hobbled, looking over your shoulder, you'd be all vulnerable. Then Wham; a wedge-tailed eagle would come in low from where you weren't looking.

Fishing isn't always about catching fish; all fishers know this, but often they have to defend their position and it's not an easy task to convince sceptics that fishing is poetry; that it's a concentration of mind and environment and that it's a peaceful and reflective time. When newbie fishers begin to realise all this, they see cranky people become calm; they see dogs laying down to rest and they see that the kids won't squabble because they feel the love. You move slowly, and when you do this, you get more done. The fishers along the Darling understand all this and have that look in their eye that says so. However, when said fishers do outwit a fish, even a carp, they are also at peace.

The agreement, by way too many locals, skeins of grey nomads and several opinionated unintelligent talk-show hosts that carp are foul creatures unfit to be eaten, I don't get. Let it be said that I would rather eat a Murray Cod, an old sandshoe or half a dripping sandwich, but if you eat one Carp your daily quota of fish oil and omegas 3, 5, 6, 7 and 9 will be adequate for around fifty years. Your body will store this life-sustaining property and release it slowly. People say, after they have commented on my ghastly green gills, 'My word Tony, your legs are getting scaly, you smell like a fish and your gut is getting bigger. Have you been eating carp again?'

I agree that carp are evil to Australia's waterways and I did my share of reducing their population but loosen up people; they are farmed in Eastern Europe, the Middle-East and in West Dubbo. They are in most continents, fifty-nine countries and when I was a little kid, half a 44 down near the back fence.

Carp can be caught in deep water, shallow water, and occasionally on an inland claypan in a drought. Live bait or lures will get one; and so will whistling softly anytime during the day. Carp are powerful fighters, their body strength equal to that of a large buffalo after a good meal. And when they see the game is up (the fish; not the burping buffalo), they often lie still and make you use a winch and a three-quarter inch wire rope to drag them up the bank.

There is but one effective way to kill a carp. Some will just toss them up the bank; apart from later stinking out fifty-square miles per fish, this method is decidedly cruel and I would never do it. Some will belt a carp around the head with a branch, and while this will indeed kill the fish (after about three days and covering the basher and seven square miles of immediate countryside with blood, brains and scales), one must use a sharp knife. Slit the throat and bend the head back until the neck breaks and after a few quick shudders, (from the fish as well) the job is done. This may sound easy but it's not because huge carp will not only resist (what is wrong with these fish?) with some of that bovinal strength, but they are structurally superior to a Sherman Tank. I have put my wrist out, done a hammy and got a serious bout of Hep F trying to do this; and then given up and tossed the fish up the bank.

Indeed, let us beat them where they stand and use them for fertiliser, but they are tasty little chaps. I can tell you how to cook a carp but it's very complicated and you will need to send some cold beer to help me prepare my notes. Just to cover expenses, you understand.

After the throat thing, preparation for cooking is straightforward. No gutting or scaling necessary; just cut a slab off each side. This will be enough to feed several armies, the little old lady down the road or one hungry fisherman. I use a cast-iron grill with a dash of olive oil, and place the fillet scale-side down. How long to cook that side depends on how big a fillet, how hot the coals are and whether you've been nice to someone in the past five months; in other words, not long. Flip it over; same time frame, or reasons for same. Flip the slab back over onto the scale side and listen to the beauty of the newly exposed white and pink flesh simmering You must then eat it with fingers only, because this will take you straight to your ancestors and make you feel at ease with your beliefs, your values and hopefully the fat, oil and juice that are dribbling down your singlet. This will be sublime and each portion you peel off the slab will remind you that the Earth is a part of a larger thing; as you are. The universe is small when you break it down. People say to me, 'Filthy fish; wouldn't touch them.' It is a shame some limit their experiences with fear, unknowledgeable denial or severe vocabulary. Please note the absence of herbs or salt; the only garnishes allowed with fish are memories of a convict heritage or tears for lost family members. And one must never cook vegetables or prepare a salad to have with this fish. It is a sin to even attempt this and you will be struck down by invisible forces, lightning, or a branch off a River Red Gum. And some will say, what about all those tiny bones in carp? Not a problem because the bigger the fish; the bigger the bones, and these long curvy bones are so strong they can be used as tent pegs, daggers, and if you cut the top off, can even double up as Welch plugs in a '54 Dodge truck.

The only other way to cook fish is to make soup. Fish soup is so nutritious that you have no need to eat anything else for about a week. You take the intestines out; that's it. And these guts are used to catch more fish - the ultimate in recycling. The rest goes in a pot with anything within a short walking distance; wild greens, pieces of bark, or a handful of soil. When it's cooked you scoop out the fins, scales and other refuse and sip away. Fishing for a meal, even with its ethereal ideals, is somewhat tamer than other methods for obtaining a snack.

A single .22 shot behind the ear towards the brain will kill a pig. Probably kill most animals. Several hunters have scoffed at me when they find out what type of rifle I carried, saying it was inadequate. Between the eyes not as good because the steel-plate foreheads of a pig can deflect a bullet, although a shoulder shot can do the trick. After a pig went down I would race over and cut its throat and have a drink. I chose not to tell many people this, especially that Bourke vet who was disgusted enough that I ate pig flesh, let alone know that I drank the blood. The energy boost is incredible. I tell you, drinking fresh blood will be the new sports drink of the future. Depending on the size of the pig I either took it all, cut a leg off; or cut the liver out. Slicing a leg off was pretty simple. It was a curved slice, a pull against the joint and snap. Pigs have light pink-coloured flesh, but their livers are dark red. One quick incision, reach in and rip out the liver. Bourke vet still in the dark here. Since the Darling trip, I have been offered employment in operating theatres across the country. I can also access a pig's heart, kidneys and lungs within thirty seconds thereby widening my employment prospects.

Catching ducks was trickier. They don't run so fast but when they are moulting and can't fly, I swam after them and wore them down. They would dive but they got tired sooner or later. If I had to shoot a duck on the water I always aimed for the base of the neck not the head, because the neck-base doesn't move. Their meat is dark and strong tasting. And many hunters have said, 'We only shoot ducks in the air.' And that is fair enough - if you have a shotgun.
15

I chose solitude and there were times this was a bad move. Solitude, not taxes or death, is the great leveller, and while it's all very well to be all Zen and peaceful, for example, while drifting down a river, you have to be ready for where your mind will take you; and I wasn't.

Is there such a thing as perfect solitude? And if there is, does it have a minimum time span in order to be called so in the first place? And does solitude have a magic number of days alone before it moves into crazy stuff? And is it only to be experienced away out there in a physical-alone place? What about the mind's solitude in a crowded place?

Some people choose to be alone to seek the divine, the spiritual, or just a decent meal because of an assumption others have nothing to offer them. This type of seeker is often obstinate, an outsider, with emotions that do not follow a set path that is known to many others in society. They seek inner peace, inner calm and even inner tubes. But this attitude by the seekers can also bring worse pain, for they are obviously unhappy souls, too unsettled to accept the what is, the what are and the what were, too insecure to live in moments of unequalled bliss. These dreamers aspire quixotically for things like truth, justice, and equality, instead of a cold beer which is heaps more subjective, easier to obtain and much better for you. They travel to faraway dusty difficult destinations, refuse advice, and intentionally suffer hardships in order to gain attention because they don't possess the ability to earn it by working hard or facing themselves. These people often start out as relatively sane, having meaningful relationships with some family members, a couple of friends and even the family pet, but in their drive to escape themselves with their wayward intentions, which are really a disguised cry for help, they end up either having a temporary breakdown or going completely nuts. From where I sat, even when doing laps, this life of self-imposed hardship, this living on the edge of insanity, this going on a search thing; sounded perfect. It was like a higher calling, probably from the people in the flat upstairs.

However, there are benefits of the lone traveller I did get. That is, if you are a bloke and alone, you are less threatening than if you are two or three blokes alone. By yourself, people will come up to you, and say, _Mate, you lost? Need a hand?_ What they really mean is _, Have a go at this poor bloke will you_ ; _he needs a hug._ You may also stumble into telegraph poles, run a fish-hook through your thumb or be savagely attacked by nesting magpies, but the lone traveller will get acceptance and warmth.

I once turned up to a campsite in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales, absolutely knackered. I dumped the rucksack and went in to that well-known curled-up position. A bloke walked over and stood above me. He had no upper body; his legs finished under his armpits; he had an oily mullet, millions of tatts, crooked teeth, (both of them) thongs, and a rifle crooked over his forearm. These all have a particular feel when you see them from ground level. This bloke, now appearing as rather tall, had impeccable grammar.

' Bleddin' 'ell bro, don't cry, it's alright. Jeez, you look like rubbish ay. Want a cold beer or wha'? An' me and Kev over 'ere are gunna cook a steak, you want one?'

True Australian hospitality and love of a stranger. Six cans each later, me, him, and Kev, well we were sharing intimate stories about racing pigeons, ladies' swimwear and classic literature. Think they might have lived in Dubbo at some stage.

Now I know that I strived for the unobtainable on the river. Not the adventures but the searching for the meaning of belonging that was like in a dream where the baddies are chasing you but you can't run fast. The goalposts of understanding kept being moved and I didn't realise it then that life does that. I was young and unworldly. Now that I'm old and unworldly, the belonging that I yearned for still may not all be in place, but my attitude toward them is.

The belonging headings quickly developed sub-headings and my frame of mind and limited mental resources (a nice way of saying I was slightly unstable), tested me greatly. Apart from the usual starvation, thirst, and general discomfort, I was slammed into the ground with despair. But I would do it again because I did get an insight into life; I found out stuff about love and belonging to someone else; I found out that I belonged to me and for a bit my soul did breathe easy. Mind you, my family relocated, some friends deserted me, and the family pet sank its fangs in, but I slightly appeased the gnawing at my heart. And then the weirdest thing happened; after I refocused my acceptance of life in a big way, including several changes of geography; _I started all over again._ Trip number eight on the old river is coming up in a month. The new obtainable is finding God. The god that is in all of us; the god that gives not takes; the god that is here now not after I die. A small quest I would think. Shouldn't take too long.

If you travel alone there is a tendency to go inside your head more frequently then say if you were with a group. I have plenty of room back there, and travelling alone comes with the time and the freedom to search for signs of life. There are times when being alone can be exhilarating or it can push you toward the edge; a place I tried unsuccessfully to avoid. But I found something pretty special on the way. What I found was true love.
16

Back O'Bourke is not so much a physical place as an abstract version of reality, and this can be more real than reality itself. Representations and symbols offer your imagination more things to grab on to than tangibles, which can have limiting linearness and restrictive narrowness, whereas your inner being can be free, exciting, and totally out there in its interpretations and explanations. And, as a bonus you can draw on your own experiences and the ones you'd like to have, to make sense of the now. For instance, you can't just walk out past the electricity poles and speed limit sign at Bourke and say you've been to the Back O'Bourke. It begins at the Black Stump, try and find that in your spare time, and you have to understand the psyche of the people who live out there, the harsh landscape and the isolation. Back O'Bourke is mythical yet real; it's ideas as well as things to touch. Link all those to your own memory, ideals and dreams and try not to go nuts. You will need a sense of history, inner-strength, and an ironic humour based on understatement.

I stayed in Bourke at the Caravan Park for a dollar-fifty a night.

Not only does Bourke have the best river in the world flowing through it, Henry Lawson stayed there for nine months in 1892-3. He was our working class poet, and his verse and short stories reflect the landscape void of idealism, full of the hardships; often with dry humour. One of his poems is about his first impressions of Bourke and he used the name Joe Swallow. He also was, for a short time, a house painter at Bourke; a noble profession.

Wandering downtown I met Peter Angel, the region's Fishing Inspector. I knew he was the Fishing Inspector because he was carrying a Murray Cod. You see others carrying a bottle of beer, a sheep or a large piece of wood, and you're never sure of their occupations; but carrying a fish is a giveaway. He told me one time he was out inspecting people who were fishing, which is what his job was, and he saw a bloke in a boat checking a gill net, a highly illegal you'll-go-to-jail-for-a-hundred years gill net _. Hey you,_ Peter says. The bloke turns around in shock. Peter thinks, Got you buddy. The bloke says, _Who are you?_ Peter says, _I'm-the-Fishing-Inspector._ The bloke says, _Thank God for that, thought you were the bloke that owned this net._

I decided to have a beer and shout myself a hot meal. And because of this evening's events I met someone gorgeous, I gave up beer and I also realised I can cook a decent meal. At the Central Hotel I was leaning on the bar having a cold beer. There were half a dozen others in the bar and things were quiet; with plenty of time to talk to the barmaid. After a year and a half, it dawned on me that things were getting very friendly here. I'm slow at some things. Rosie, the barmaid from Melbourne, was travelling around, looking for something before her uni studies started. It was her last night in Bourke.

'Hey river boy,' she said, 'Want another beer?'

'No thanks, I don't drink.'

There are different levels of flirting, and we were having the slow cheeky type that is cautious but also gives you the tingles that gets the hormones screaming. There was a sense of the ridiculous between us, and an attraction that was clearly a hint of things to come. I could sense it, and I know she did too. Rosie had swarthy skin, black eyes and black eyebrows, and gorgeous long thick black hair so shiny and glossy I'm guessing she ate plenty of emu eggs. Coal never looked so good. When our eyes met it was like it took an hour to break the spell. I think the patrons lining up ten deep waiting for a beer gave it away. Things were moving along well; I could feel the thrill that comes before a big night. I waited till she turned around, then knocked the half a glass of beer down.

'Excuse me, thought you were offering me a beer?' And held up the drained glass.

She raised an eyebrow and shook her head slowly. She told me later that my lame jokes were the only reason she fell in love with me.

There was a bloke leaning on the bar around the corner; fairly slim and tall, short cropped hair, blue sparkly eyes and an earring in his left ear. Unusual, I thought. As I was looking and thinking this, he looked straight at me. He then came over, put his hand on mine and said, 'Buy you a beer? Or give you a lift home?'

'No thanks, mate, I'm good.'

I grinned and held up my glass, just to prove my point, and I realised it only had half and inch of froth at the bottom because Rosie was over there pulling me a new one.

'Sure, I can see that,' he said all disgusted, and went back to his spot around the corner.

My heart was thumping and my head was spinning. I knew it wouldn't only be a drink or a lift home I'd be accepting. A little shaken from I'm not sure what, I fled to one of the clubs. These country pubs are just too personal.

My escape was rewarded with the worst meal I have ever had. I could name this establishment in Bourke, it's near the main drag, and for two slabs of beer and a fully-paid holiday in Paris with spending money, I will do so. The vegetables were made from plastic, the instant mashed potato was hideous, and the rissoles were made from recycled car tyres and nuclear waste. Even the beer was stale; so bad I give up drinking for twenty years. Maybe the dodgy food was a punishment for having naughty thoughts then running away. Brave people may get hurt; but us cowards suffer more.

After Bourke, it rained a soft light rain that made the soil change colour to a deeper brown and the grass turn a brighter yellow. The Gidgee Trees gave out a beautiful smell; rich and strong like wet earth crossed with a rotting animal. It is also called Stinking Wattle, which I think is unfair because this has unsocial connotations. I renamed it; a Wattle that Smells of Life and Death and All the Stuff in between When It Rains or Flowers. Also, Gidgee wood gives the best coals ever. Never mind an old slab of Ironbark, you whack a bit of Gidgee on and it will heat half of New South Wales and leave orange coals, glowing like a wolf's eyes, underneath a white film of ash for around four years. Keeping myself and western New South Wales warm in the soft rain was all very well, but my mind was still confused. I would again ignore this bloke attraction thing until it reared its head, but what of Rosie? How was that going to work? She'd left Bourke the same day as me and I didn't know where she was going. Rosie was vivacious, really bubbly and that was exciting, and I was disappointed I hadn't stayed at the pub. Now she was gone.
17

Dad stored three rifles in the towel cupboard; a .310, a .303, and a smaller .22. First two, courtesy of a World War, were heavy and when fired made a sound like a cannon. My right ear agrees with this and still buzzes every now and again as a reminder that I don't know how to discharge a weapon correctly. The .22 was a bolt action, with a ten bullet magazine, and it was the one I took on the river. It came with a couple of valuable lessons on safety. Number one was a ripper.

Dad had arrived home after an evening shooting foxes, and said, 'Now you kids, let me tell you, safety is the most important thing. For example, you never, and I mean never, point a rifle at another person. Unless of course...Anyway, this rifle here, my trusty .22, is currently empty. I have taken out the magazine, here, and there's none in the spout, so even if I did point it at someone, it'd be safe right?

'But dad, you just said never point a rifle at anyone, ever, unless you wanted to...'

'Exactly. So just for this lesson, I will point it at the ceiling; and then pull the trigger, okay?'

He did this and as we watched in awe as our dad, the Hunter, the Safety Secure Family Man, blasted a hole in the hallway ceiling.

Next day at school, I got the Gold Star Award for Show-and-Tell.

Lesson number two, and never mind praying for your kids to survive sex, drugs, and rock and roll, wait until the damn fools get a firearm. All four of us went for a drive in the FJ Holden to spotlight for rabbits; mum, dad, two kids; a typical evening for a West Dubbo family. Other choices for the evening entertainment included Snakes and Ladders or watching television through a shop window. Killing things wins every time.

It was my turn to bring home the lapin, and from the back left seat of the J, I had a shot which hit the ground about fifty metres away from the bunny. Then it was time to go home and dad said, 'Righto skinny, make her safe.'

The rifle was pointing away from anyone; I've got this. I removed the magazine and because I had listened during safety lessons, or perhaps too well, I pulled the trigger; just for security you understand. There was a _'crack'_ , and the immediate sound of wrenched metal and shattering glass echoed around the car. Then, after a short silence of around half an hour moved around the car, Dad said, 'You okay?'

I therefore presumed everyone else was still alive or at least not injured too badly. I'd forgotten to check the spout. The window, still being wound down to allow for the earlier superb marksmanship, was therefore hidden in the door of the car, and this is where the bullet went. Put a small bulge on the outside of the door too. Nothing further was ever said about this incident, and with a replacement glass and a spot of home panel-beating, all physical evidence was removed. The ceiling had similar treatment. What a team. Show and Tell gave me another award. 'Good morning class; last night, my brother...'

When dad gave me this rifle to take down the river, he didn't actually say anything regarding ethics, morals or safety. As he handed the rifle over, like a military coming out parade, and our hands were outstretched on the rifle in that no-man's-land of fear and excitement between us, he just looked straight into my eyes and nodded slowly.

Revenge is supposed to be no good for your soul. It is apparently self-destructive, does not help the grievance and carries bad vibes. That is simply not true; justice must be done and evil must be repaid and stopped. My grievance was with feral pigs. Back at Collerwaroy Station near Brewarrina, the pigs that had busted open one of my tin trunks and helped themselves to my food supply were not forgotten. Of course I couldn't get even with those particular pigs, unless of course they were tracking me down the Darling, which was actually possible. I had heard strange grunting noises one night in the Bourke caravan park, so maybe it was them. And since the sow that had put me up a tree and then swam after me, I also realised that pigs carry a grudge. Maybe they need to learn some coping strategies; try some meditation or yoga, read a few self-help books. Learn how to let stuff go.

My approach was nothing like this; I hung on tightly to grievances, and paid back when and where possible. I found it easy to extend my annoyance across the entire wild pig population. No trouble at all really; a transfer of revenges. Fantasy is the strength for the weak, and carrying a rifle a prop for the unbrave. Although I did try hunting without a rifle down past Tilpa and that had an unusual ending.

Noises on the river, except for certain birds, don't travel far, but if you bang a paddle on an aluminium boat this sharp noise will travel across the water much faster than the speed of light. Seen and heard it happen; ask any boatie, see if I'm not right about this. I laid down a couple of wheat bags so there would be no paddle banging noise. Apart from wanting to be a silent bush person, except when talking to the river, or the river talking to me, there were extra special occasions when I needed total silence. For example, when I was about to move into slaughter mode.

I came around a bend and saw ten pigs wallowing and snorting at the water's edge, leaving great muddy holes and their green poo was seeping into the water. I quietly checked the map, and saw there were no houses within six million days travel.

I drifted in close and slowly stood up. The ten-shot magazine was full; I put one in the spout, flicked the safety off and placed the rifle butt softly into my right shoulder. No ice would be needed today, and neither ceilings nor car side-panels would be in danger; this was time for vengeance. The result was Tony eight: pigs two.

The escapees ran squealing up the bank and I didn't pursue them because I had emptied the magazine and I'm a slow reloader. By the time I would be ready, they would be sunbaking on a beach in Bali. Knocking over eight pigs at the one time was the most destruction I had ever caused at the one time and I felt excited by creating death, think what you will, and that smell of cordite which is a better aphrodisiac than chocolate. Believe me, I've been alone on the river with chocolates and a rifle long enough to test this theory; but something just did not feel right. And it wasn't because I wouldn't be able to eat all that I had killed.

Either side of where the Warrego River comes into the Darling River, there were eight sheep stations. Most of their homesteads were marked on the map; some were huge some were historic. Yet I managed to find one that was not on the map and it caused me great personal grief. Coming around the second bend after the revenge, I saw a recently built house up on the right bank. I stared at it for a couple of weeks, just drifting in little circles, all the while thinking deeply about what this house was about to mean to me. What sort of maps were these anyway? Don't even show when wild pigs live next to houses. Really.

I walked slowly up the bank, my shoulders so far forward they bumped the ground. If you've been raised in Dubbo, it's actually an easy thing to do. I could have used my wheat-bag silencer method to sneak past. Of course that did come to mind, but apart from the wheat bag being used for another purpose, there are times in life when one must face one's mistakes. And this sure as hell was going to be a big one. Thank Goodness I don't have to be honest too often, I've got enough to do.

I saw a bloke leaning at an angle against a gum tree, his shoulder taking the weight, one leg bent and crossed over the other shin, with his shoe toe-first on the ground. You've seen blokes do this; it's a sort of casual bush look. His head leaning forward a little, hands cupped around a pipe, just beginning to light it. Normally, when coming across someone in the bush, I stop a bit short and wait, like I had done with the bloke on the Barwon who had told me to scram, and maybe ask, _Do you fancy the favourite in the Melbourne Cup?_ Sometimes the other person will initiate the conversation, _What do you reckon about the current situation in the Middle-East?_ None of these things happened. This bloke who was waiting for me, glanced sideways and said, 'You shot my pigs didn't you?'

Telling lies is not only a lot of fun, but is sometimes vital for your physical safety, and I'm really good at it; therefore upholding both reasons, and currently needing a particular focus on the second. When he tapped his newly lit pipe empty on the gum tree, poked it in his back pocket, and came forward, I thought he was going to give me a belting. No fun or lies today. Damn, don't you hate being honest? I breathed out slowly and shaped up, ready to defend.

'I did and I'm so sorry. I checked my map and there were no houses. I will certainly pay you for them; either that or stay loose, I'm from West Dubbo you know.'

He waved my hands away. 'How many?'

'Eight.'

'You got a machine gun in there?'

'Hell no, that would be irresponsible.' That was a bit awkward.

He stuck his mitt out. 'I'm O'Readon. Come up and have some lunch.'

I've just blasted your pigs and now you want to share lunch? Over cold roast lamb and pickle sandwiches, he told me how he fed his pigs with the ferals in his yards each day. Fattened them up, cleaned them out, and then when the market was right, closed the gate, and bingo. When I left two hours later after a sumptuous lunch, he had given me a fruit cake, some oranges and a frozen leg of lamb. And wouldn't hear of accepting any payment for his pig losses. When he walked down to see me off and to wish me all the best, I was pleased that the wheat bag was now covering the front section of the boat. And I also realised that I was a fool. Not only for not realising that revenge is not a good thing but for not realising there are people in the world like O'Readon, who are pure in forgiveness, and in their giving.
18

_The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own._

That is from Percy Shelley who had obviously just met a barmaid. Probably in Bourke when he was painting houses with Henry Lawson.

My understanding was that love had many forms. None of which I could fathom. Being attached freaked me out because of exactly that; staying with the one person. Kidding me, right? I was scared of love, I didn't understand anything about what it might mean, and any experiences were either fleeting, avoided, or paid for. And yet deep down I wanted a deep burning thing that would mean something special.

I wanted a love that went beyond just having a passion to do things, - as in, _I love to crochet, collect stamps, or collect spouses, - _to be an uncontrollable force and the only reason I would do things. A love that would let me think that I was still independent and have free choice. I wanted to fall in love, but I think it was with the ideal rather than the actual.

I did find love on the Darling River, and it happened when I wasn't looking. Blindsided by a girl who so gave of herself that it still makes me cry from the pureness of her heart. Of course she fell in love with me. I mean, she didn't stand a chance. This love story with Rosie the barmaid started in Bourke and it started with no thoughts of love; just two people joking about. There were no deep esoteric questions, no future plans, just a pleasurable feeling that this was fun; yet special too.

I did not know then that we were soon to be bathed in that soft yellow light of love that occasionally shines on two people; two people who craved what they really wanted, were not able to keep it but held onto what there was anyway. The barmaid, now known as my barmaid, because she said so, and I, had something that developed into a something else, that while wrenching my heart out and not putting it back in properly, also gave me an else that I wanted but never believed could exist. That first true kiss, oh my heaven, you sob as it goes softly through your body and it tells you that you are loved and accepted, totally; and that person lets you give your love, your whole existence, with the vulnerability, the fear, and the joy that comes when you give yourself. You remember your first true kiss? I gave Rosie my heart, and she exploded into mine with love. Two lost souls, floating around burning with a desire to give, one looking for a particular thing that was tangible yet elusive, the other looking for something crazy and abstract, and both wrapping each other with soft threads of truth, friendship and laughter.

Just by walking in to a bush hotel, you issue a challenge. You are the newcomer, and will be so until you have proved yourself; either by:

1) bragging,

2) manly strength (e.g., throwing things around, including but not inclusive of, other patrons), or,

3) by shutting up and not challenging the status quo.

My choice was always option three. I walked in to the sedate Louth Hotel, sat very quietly, looked up, and saw Rosie behind the bar. Where do I go from here? I had run out on her in Bourke, even though nothing had been arranged; but then it hadn't needed to be. We had something going then and we both knew it. So I thought I would exude he-man type silence and give the impression that I was confident, worldly, and possibly even vicious. That's right boys, don't mess with me; I'm from West Dubbo.

Being quiet also helped to disguise several hundred insecurities and an acute nervousness. I mean, any fool can walk in to an hotel, blab and pretend to be tough, and possibly get a hiding. And I mean, who would want to get a thumping in a pub fight? It's when you say nothing that they guess. Yet, if you don't say something that is burning you up, not to impress the locals as in Option #1, but to a gorgeous barmaid you fancied, then your memory will be tormented forever. I said, 'Hey Rosie, nice to see you.'

She said, 'Right, you again.' And she went on with wiping the bar.

This made me feel very special. She said it was her first day in Louth, and since Bourke, she had been looking around for something. I pointed out this last-day first-day coincidence, and she received this news with great excitement.

'Yep. My last day there I see you and my first day here I see you, how does that work? Pity I didn't see you when I was at Brewarrina. Here, have a beer, it's on me.'

'I don't drink, thanks.'

'You said that before.'

'I mean it now. I had a bad experience in Bourke and I gave up the grog.' Having no idea how _that_ was to play out shortly.

She brought me an orange juice then moved away to do stuff, and I looked around at the eyes watching me, because that's all there was; no people, just a bar full of eyes. Even though they had difficulty sitting on barstools, with their little legs dangling, they said, ' _So, he doesn't drink beer, which is a bit girly, and how come he knows our new barmaid?'_

When Rosie came my way, I displayed excellent tact, a great deal of subtlety and a large serve of West Dubbo, 'Umm, could you come home with me tonight?' Someone has got to step up here. Not going to lose her again. There were no blokes with earrings or pretty blue eyes; I had checked. Rosie looked up at me with those dark eyes, those black marbles of desire, those stunningly attractive drive-you-mad eyes, and said, quite casually I thought, 'Oh, and where would we be staying?'

So now it depends on the class of accommodation does it? Not good enough to spend a dreamy evening with me, the river man who tickled your fancy back there in Bourke, and sleeping just anywhere? Please; spare me.

'Right, if that's how it's going to be. It so happens I have a room in the motel just down the way a bit. It's very clean and really nice. That do? Or were you after something a bit better?'

I then hoped that on her first day in Louth she hadn't seen that the town was made up of one hotel, a post office, two magpies, a brown sheep-dog; and no motels. And I also hoped that my tent was free of dirt, snakes and fish. She was making it tough. She faltered; and I knew I had her. God I'm good. I moved in with the resistance piece.

'Hey, you and me, we had something going back there in Bourke. Come on, what do you reckon?'

That was all I had. I didn't have the good looks, the huge amounts of money, or anything else particularly huge to offer. Just saying. I then let her have the left profile; the one that didn't have pimples, scars or accentuate my crooked nose.

She said, and my great-great grandchildren will never forget what she said because when I have some, I will tell them,

'I thought that too, until you ran off with that bloke.'

Where did that come from? I picked myself up off the floor and I knew my face was extremely red. I think I tried to say something, but it came out as blubber. The hole just kept getting deeper, shovels not required. A couple of locals spluttered into their beer. _That's right; river boy not only drinks orange juice, but has been rejected by our gorgeous barmaid._ And their splutters turned the bar into a rollicking laughter. Probably never be game to go back to Louth; ever.

I crawled back to my tent, tossed out four reptiles, three dead fish, and two buckets of mud, then lay down and cuddled my pillow. It wasn't that I had missed out on a sweet girl, which had happened so many times I had a triple-A credit rating. But me and Rosie, our hearts were attached somehow. Whether it would have been a hot night, true love, or somewhere in between, I wasn't sure. Back in Bourke, we had bounced cheeky comments across the bar, checked each other out and smiled when doing so, and besides, she was so cute. Damn.

I felt embarrassed, and very flat, and it was more than just a disappointment. It was like truth, goodness, not to mention a snuggly night, had been lost, and not from circumstance, but because of me. Wrong decision on her part; or mine earlier in Bourke, I wasn't sure. Either way, rejection sucked and I felt horribly alone.

Life hands out disappointments, and sometimes you can't prepare for them. You just get to be reactive by dealing with it or getting your sorry backside out of that situation. Or both. To realise you've got nothing to offer to someone that you think is pretty special - that's a blow. Thank goodness I was on the river and I could keep running away, away from Louth and its non-existent motel. Hope I didn't meet up with any of these blokes on a station or hotel further down. Hopefully they were all visitors from Western Australia, just over on a fishing trip.

A voice came into my sleep, 'Hey, is this the Louth Motel?'

I let the pillow escape and sat up, feeling bleary and confused. 'What? Oh, depends who's asking. Not from Perth are you?'

'It is I, your favourite barmaid. What's for supper?'

I straggled out of the tent, still feeling dopey.

'There, in the camp oven, it's all yours.'

'Doesn't it rust sitting in there?'

'Sure, how I keep my iron levels up.'

Rosie had a spoonful and asked,

'This is so nice. What is it?'

'If I tell you, I'll have to shoot you. In the morning anyway.'

'That's off and you know it.'

'Which, the shooting bit, or the other bit?'

'Tell me what it is, or I won't stay,' and she looked around, 'in your motel.'

'Please yourself.'

How good was that? Half asleep and I had still called her bluff. I then waited a respectable amount of time, I think it was around half a second, and said, 'It's a pig I shot yesterday.'

'Oh.'

'Had to; told him a secret the night before.'

We both woke at first light and Rosie asked, 'Hey there; which way you going?'

'Well, while the water keeps flowing downhill, I am going to follow it, hopefully to the salt water, then maybe to Melbourne to catch up on a couple of old kibbutz volunteers.'

'Hey, me too with the Melbourne thing. It's my home town; might see you there. I'm going back to start my studies.'

Then there was one of those long awkward pauses, which actually last around two seconds and she said, 'I'm sorry I said stuff last night. You didn't meet that bloke in Bourke did you?'

'Tried to, but he rejected me.'

'They laughed at you and I'm truly sorry.'

'It's okay, I'm not sensitive. Besides, I enjoyed the crawl back to the tent. Hey Rosie, what's your last name?'

'Richardson; if you must know.'

'I don't really, just a bit nervous here, sort of looking for something to say. And no, the bloke in Bourke wasn't for me. Maybe sometimes I am a confused person.'

We lay together like two ants clinging together in a bucket of water. It was a deep hug, a soft wraparound knitting of histories and dreams, made with only soft colours of wool.

I said to Rosie, 'Got you worked out. You're one of me aren't you?'

Saying goodbye comes in many forms. There's one where a guest or family member leaves and you mutter thank goodness quietly through your teeth as he drives away. I was having the mild goodbye experience where you feel warm inside knowing that you had met someone special, and that this feeling was returned. And I knew Rosie and I would meet up again; simple as that. I was the one and I could do no wrong. No chore was too menial and there was beauty in everything. There was no sadness or missingness, just knowledge that this meeting would happen again, somewhere, somehow, and all would be the same as it had been. I was on top of the world. Maybe I needed to stand a bit firmer and watch my balance, because I was to discover another version of parting, where your heart is wrenched apart and you are flung against the wall; and you cannot conceive of a greater anguish. Rosie was going down river to work in pubs, looking for 'something on the Darling', before her uni studies commenced. I didn't get her Melbourne address, but I didn't care because I just knew that we would either meet again in a hotel along the Darling, or in Melbourne; simple as that.
19

You hear about rivers rising, flash floods even, at a place that has had no rain, and where the river had been low, or even dry. The Darling River is no different, as explorer Charles Sturt observed in the mid-1850s when the rapidity of the rising water surprised him. Here however, the river was rising steadily and slowly. I knew this because of the high-tech measuring device I used; a stick in the mud at the water's edge. When you're out on the Darling, you can still see the sticks that Sturt used. The rain swept through the trees in swathes like someone up there was using a large hand-held sprinkler. Life became grey and all the earlier stuff about being happy and confident was now rubbish. I felt very lonely and wanted to go somewhere and get cuddled.

A similar thing had happened in Germany in 1974. I was assessing my future travel plans, having been recently jailed and then deported from Sweden, because customs chose not to believe my reason for wanting to visit. Being driven to a ferry in a black Mercedes is pure class. But the smart attitude had now faded and as I overlooked the bustle of Hamburg harbour, I felt a cloud of woe wrap itself around me. The big D word had never been in my vocab because I thought I was merely insecure, confused and lonely; not depressed. So much for plans to go through Africa, or overland through Afghanistan. I just wanted to go home. I felt anxious, ashamed, defeated, dishonoured, inadequate, emotional, and intensely trapped. I also felt homesick and downright awful. This feeling lasted for three days. All my focus was on blue skies, gum trees and birds. I was missing the soft light of the Australian bush; the tones, the freedom, and the rivers; and not my family and friends _._ A place of belonging that didn't include people; people that I knew.

And now on the river those same feelings returned. I decided I hated Dubbo which was interesting because Dubbo was three hundred miles that way, and had nothing to do with my day to day activities, only my current thinking. I also, to my eternal shame, thought that dad had heaps of annoying habits, and I recounted them and used them to vindicate being peeved-off. Where was all this coming from? I felt really bad about this and decided not to tell anyone. I also decided it was me that had irritating habits, quite a few, but right then I was in a foul mood. I glared at things including mundane domestic chores which, just after Rosie left had been seen as things of great simplicity and beauty. These were now hindrances, and strayed into my time already allocated for being cranky.

When I had exhausted the angry stuff, I turned it all inwards because I felt guilty I had been mean about dad; not Dubbo. Stuff that town; Dubbo, you bunch of inbred, claustrophobic, stifling conservatives; then I felt bad that I had let my mate Peter down. So now I wasn't appreciative of the town that raised me, nor of being a good son, or a good mate. It was like, okay universe I'm feeling a bit flat so why don't you just load me up with guilt? Make me feel awful about everything. Bring it all on and let's have this out.

The annoyances and guilt turned into total melancholy, a progression that transcended rationality, and one that made every thought a bad one. It was like a lid had been taken off a bucket of negative thoughts. I was half-way down the hole of no return, and my memories, emotions, and perceptions were keeping me there. Why did mum have to die? I felt empty and lonely, and decided that isolation was crap. Why would I want to be away from people? Or, at the moment, one particular people, name of Rosie. To find out about myself? Way things were, I knew too much about myself. To belong somewhere? What, on the banks of an old river away out in the never-never? The grey-leaved coolibahs seemed greyer, the slippery grey steep banks seemed slippier, and the grey dead logs became black and streaky in their wetness. There was silence; except for a lone honeyeater's call. Everything was wet and muddy; the boat, the blankets, and my thoughts. All I was doing was creating pain and more questions. I knew bringing stuff up was a bad idea. What a stupid idea thinking I could find answers about where to belong. Maybe God could have helped but he wouldn't get a look in right now. He could wander out from behind, or through a gum tree, and all I'd say would be, 'Find us a bit of dry wood will you mate?' What a load of crap religion is. The suppression, the violence and the lies; I hated everything about it. I was alone and lonely; and worst of all - I didn't know why.

This river didn't seem to be the same place that had given me joy all those other times. Which makes for interesting thought, because the river and trees were pretty much exactly the same. It was only me thinking I was miserable that made me miserable. Even identifying the irony and the idiocy of my mind making things a certain way, didn't bring me out of feeling sorry for myself.

I was lost because I wouldn't break free of myself. I needed to kick myself in the bum, a wake-up call which I tried but my lower leg and foot wouldn't cooperate. Suppose I could head-butt a gumtree, but what would putting a dent in a tree prove? I made a list of what would be needed to make the situation better. First up is to identify what is wrong here. Well, I was cold, wet and lonely. How could this situation be fixed?

1) By wrapping a dry blanket around me and getting out of the rain would be a good start.

2) Rosie would walk down through the trees and hoy out, _Hey river boy, what're up to?_

Of course deep down I knew that the warmth I needed had little to do with dry blankets. I needed to be cosy and warm but it was more than a replacement for damp blankets. I was desperate for a warmth that found me some company. Maybe Rosie would be working at the Tilpa Hotel when I got there? If I paddled quickly I might get there in three weeks. Three weeks! My heaven that was such a long time. Why did I not get her Melbourne address so I could whizz down?

It felt like I was the only person left alive in the world. I was sliding lower in the abyss of no return and I needed help. I saw an old pump and thought that although the map showed no houses on this bend I knew there may just be a house up there somewhere. I tied up next to the pump, and slid, tripped, and stumbled up to a white house and knocked on a solid wooden door. Keep in mind that all roads were cut, this house was surrounded by floodwater, I hadn't washed for three weeks, my long hair was matted, my beard was straggly, and my clothes were wet and muddy. A lady in her seventies opened up. 'Hello there,' she said, 'I can see that you need to be cosy and warm. Come in out of the rain and have some hot lamb stew.'

Truly she said, Come in out of the rain and have some hot lamb stew. There was no, Well, who the hell are you my untidy man? Where did you spring from? Within five seconds we were laughing and sharing stories like we were old friends. The lady's name was Sheila Hole, and the station was Trilby. My new aim in life was now to show kindness to others like Sheila gave to me; nothing else. A lottery win would mean nothing; I would give it away. Sheila said I could stay in the shearers' huts and to come over when the rain stopped, and we would talk more. She said there was a stove, a crate of dry wood, and to make myself at home. You need only to say that to me once. I lit that stove, I washed in its hot water and I was more than cosy and warm; I was saved and I was safe. I listened to the pounding rain on the corrugated iron roof as I sat in front of the stove and watched the kettle sing. Of course, we all know that corrugated iron was only invented so that we could hear this glorious sound.

During the Hamburg unacknowledged-depression episode three years earlier, as I was staring at stevedores and ships, a Kiwi bloke wandered up and we talked about travel and being away from home. He said he was from Christchurch and had been away for two years. I asked him did he ever get homesick, and he said certainly but that he had learned to fight it. Otherwise, he said, you'd never stay away for long. He also said he lived in London and it was a fantastic place full of young people from all around the world, with plenty of work and that if I were to find myself there, as opposed to say, being deported in the back of a black Mercedes (it did happen again), why, if I wanted, I could crash on his lounge for a couple of days till I found my feet because they tend to get lost when you go to a new country. Just before he went inside the Youth Hostel, he said if I was interested he'd give me his address.

A friendly word, some sound advice and an invitation; how enticing was that? Is that all it takes to get me out of a rut? What a breeze. Don't know what I was whingeing about. I bounced in to the hostel common room, because when you're in a happy mood, you bounce, to get his address and take him up on the crashing invitation, but couldn't find him. The warden said No, don't think we've had any Kiwis here for a while. __ He checked the register for the past month and there were no Kiwis listed. I still went to London.

In the Trilby shearers' huts I felt very grateful of where I was at the minute, and it led me to think where I had come from. Not as in down a river, I wanted to understand my ancestors and if I might find some connections, some belonging, a link to this family from way back, and this thing called place. Can belonging be based on your roots? And does it forever stay with you? I kept thinking that there must be only one place to belong, and if this was true and it was Dubbo, I was finished, especially after thoughts entertained just before Trilby. Didn't occur to me that maybe I was looking too far back, or not under my nose. And as I stared at the heat coming from that stove and the hissing kettle, not quite the same as staring at a small campfire but love the one you're with, my mind didn't connect with my eyes. It said, _I'll be back a bit later_
20

Must we find out the past to be able to move forward; or even be still? And there is only past and future - there is no present, because time is never still. I can see several honorary doctorates coming here, '...is an extraordinary individual thinker - needs to be given more recognition, money and cuddles; perhaps he also needs to recommence his medication.'

I thought about my convict heritage, and a man called Joseph who married a girl called Mary.

'Hey, want to know who my sort-of brother is? I taught him how to measure once and saw twice. He wasn't on task much either; always daydreaming about some job he said he had to do.'

Joseph Pritchard, a boot maker, was assisted in his travel arrangements from England to Australia in 1834, on the ship Roslyn Castle, because he stole music. Why would you steal music? Why not nick a loaf of bread like everyone else? Were music lessons too expensive? His accommodation on the hundred day voyage would have been secure; a ball and chain gives you that feeling. Diet; excellent; months of hard tack give you a healthy glow. He was seventeen at the time of his conviction, which subsequently gave him seven years free rent. After Convict Joseph did his time, which had included writing out the lines, _Rock music is evil_ eight zillion times, __ he graduated.

He was given a Certificate of Freedom and I now have a copy of this document. Under General Remarks it states that Joe was covered in tatts; two anchors, dots, strokes, man and a woman, an INRI crucifix and the words For Us He Died, human figures kneeling, several initials and the results from the Melbourne Cup from the past seven years. INRI is an acronym for 'Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Iudaeorvm'. If you were watching birds out the window during Latin lessons like Joseph had done, and you need a rough translation; it means ' _Angie_ , or _Brown Sugar?_

And how did Joe afford so many tattoos? Probably spent all his apprenticeship wages on tatts. I know how he was caught; he was positively identified at the lineout.

'That's him gov, that one there.'

'Are you sure madam?'

'Oh yes, he's the only one without any bare flesh.'

Or maybe Joseph got his tatts on the cruise ship, or when he was locked up?

Free Joseph then married Mary, which gives my lineage those sound credentials, and they had fourteen children, and one of them, who became my Great-Great Grandfather, was a miner at Lambing Flat in 1860, which is now the town of Young in New South Wales, and I wished he had kept a diary, at which I would marvel at daily life in a gold mining district. If I could meet him, I'd have questions, like; Hey Bill, where did you stand in the Chinese riots? More importantly, Where's all our gold? You did bury some, right?

Do you honour ancestors in such a way that it affects your day to day? That Joseph was a thief and a convict didn't worry me (it's obviously genetic). I want to know more personal stuff about him, not just the official records. Why did he steal music? What was the voyage over like, not to mention seven years in jail in a new country? And then life after prison; was he angry? Missing England?

The rain had eased and Sheila asked could I help her out with some work that needed doing around the house-yard. I said of course, and thought it a nice way I could repay her kindness. She also mentioned there was a man coming through the next afternoon to pick up some wool bales and then would be going out west to pick up some more, and would I like to go for the drive? I said that would be fantastic and after that trip I would get stuck into the jobs.

The truck man was dressed in old thin-legged jeans and a blue singlet, and even though I thought it still cold, and it was a wet sort of cold not a crispy one, he had no skin of his own left; the stuff holding him together was brown leather, needing a decent serving of linseed oil. He was seven foot tall, four inches wide and had shoulders like a snake. Thin sinews streaked off those shoulders, through his arms and down to his hands like wire ropes holding down a single-span bridge, and he had a roll-yer-own stuck between his closed lips in the left corner of his mouth. He looked at me with his head at forty-five degrees, and drawled, 'G'Day Tone, nice to meet y'. Name's Davo.'

As we headed west on a road that was a two-tyred track in the red soil, the moon came up from wherever it is that it hides and it was covered in melted rancid butter. Then as it got higher, or we got lower, it turned into a white light and brought a soft yellow glow to the land, and shadows hid behind the trees. It was a darkness of light, or a lightness of dark that surely must confuse nocturnal creatures.

Davo switched his lights on. However, not only did he also have his headlights on high beam, he had several thousand other spotlights, and we zoomed across the red sand and saltbush like we were flying low, sweeping across a Martian landscape.

There were some kangaroos on the road and I shuffled in my seat because I knew they were dazzled by the white lights bearing down on them. And kangaroos in that situation stay still and stare like kangaroos caught in spotlights. The truck, with its heavy duty steel bull bars across the front grill, ran straight over the top of them and they became crumpled kangaroos. We kept on speeding through the night like it was just some red and grey bits of cloth wrapped over thin bamboo sticks we had just run over.

I looked over to Davo and said, 'I say old chap, couldn't we somehow shoo them away?'

He shook his head, really slowly, narrowed his eyes and gave me a filthy look that clearly said, You soft townie, go home where you belong, and I realised then that I may have made a slight error in saying what I had just said.

'Can't brake,' he said, 'Too dangerous. And besides, we do have to get to the station this week.'

Of course he was correct, but me knowing this didn't stop the tense silence that now became apparent. I felt a little out of place; overstepped my welcome sort of thing. Awkward and my fault. I could have said, 'Well me Davo, if you slowed down a bit, to say a more modest three hundred miles an hour, then maybe _it wouldn't be so bloody dangerous to brake_ , would it then?'

On the way back, with the wool bales roped on with truckies' knots of such intricate beauty and grace they should be hanging in the National Art Gallery next to da Vinci, Galileo and the cover of the White Album, we saw more soft cuddly red and grey furry animals in the distance, probably the last of the species, staring at us from between the wheel tracks. Maybe Davo could stand next to his truckie's knots in the gallery, and explain how he does it. He could have little bits of spare rope for people to have a go. Schoolkids would be joyous; they love a good hands-on lesson. Maybe his truck could be there too, with a few wool bales, so the practice would be authentic. He would have to had hosed the bull-bar though, too many of them soft townies would complain.

As we bore down on the innocent vulnerable rare gorgeous little soft creatures, his thin roll-yer-own looked across at me and grinned, and I thought he was rubbing in my recently noted sensitivities. It's not that I won't kill animals, I do; including kangaroos, and that was one of the things bothering me. If I was okay to kill one to eat, then what's the problem with a few extra? Not for eating, mind you, just for shifting out of your way. But it still didn't seem right to trample over thousands of kangaroos at seventy miles an hour. I suppose it would be unexpected and quick. _Hey kangaroo husband, what do you reckon about these bright stars coming our w_....kadoonk. And as we thundered toward the near-extinct kangaroos, the ones ecologists, coats-of-arm makers and little children would be lamenting over fairly soon; he turned all the lights off.

Now, up until that point, I hadn't had the pleasure of being in a truck doing seventy miles an hour at night on a narrow dirt track with the lights off, and it wasn't up there on my top ten list of things to do. So there we were, currently in our low flying aeroplane, fully loaded with a dozen heavy wool bales coming in at around two tons, and in total blackness. I leapt forward and grabbed the dash and realised that my mouth couldn't open any wider. I tried to speak but it came out as incoherent dribble. When he turned the lights on, about two hours later, there were no kangaroos on the road. They were walking just to the side, using their tails as a third leg, as we thundered past. Davo looked across, with the thin ragged cigarette now glued to his bottom lip bending down like a bit of soggy wire, and said, 'Happy now?'

Yes, as a matter of fact Davo, mostly that I was still alive. And happy my heart rate had now come back to a few thousand beats per minute. During the remainder of the trip each time we decked kangaroos, it felt like we were driving over a bridge, with the expansion gaps going clumpity clump, or a train going over its railway line gaps, clickety clack. If we ever needed a national kangaroo cull, or an anything cull, for instance, saltwater crocodiles, beaurocrats, or tall buildings, we'll just give Davo a tingle.

The next morning Sheila asked did I have a nice time. I said that Yes, thank you Sheila, I did, and that I had seen some beautiful red-soil country, and I had learned quite a bit. Didn't mention it was mainly how to keep my mouth shut.
21

While I was at Trilby, the boat had become half full of water, mud and two wet possums. I had dragged the boat out to clean it and because of the Darling's bends, upstream was then closer, and I put it back in the river above where I had first stopped. And so when I left with two cleaner possums and a sparkling boat full of confidence and gratefulness, a weird thing happened. Weird in a strange but wonderful way. And it changed the way I thought about life; forever. Don't you just love those days? Was this one of the answers I had been looking for? That had arrived before the end of the trip? I thought quest answers were only found at the end?

I left Trilby and it was raining again, because it was one of those years when any wisp of cloud called its mates over for a party. There didn't seem to be a pattern. The rain would come from any direction and at any time. It was also like that at the end of 2010, which was a lead into the next couple of years of floods. Then, as now, there would be storms, freezing winds, sleet, and set in rain.

And so after Trilby I drifted in this rain, got cold and wet, but this time I didn't mind; it was okay to be constantly damp, to be slipping in the mud, to scrounge for scraps of dry firewood. And more importantly I had no loneliness or melancholy; just peace. This confused me because a short while earlier, I had been in the exact same place and even had puzzled over how the same river could make me feel different.

How does that work? This was like the comparison between sleeping in the boat in the Southern Marshes and then just above Brewarrina. In the first time, one was exciting but the other one rubbish, and now this first time was rubbish and the second time was exciting. And it seemed like the happiness of Trilby in between these two visits to the same place, same rain, mud etc., was the only difference. Or was it? It must be that levels of perceived happiness at a particular time, for whatever reason, give an emotional feeling that mean that you either want to be where you are or not. Even in the same location you could have a totally different reaction each time. Can't get over that; it was an epiphany.

I now realised that attitude is everything; it is what you tell yourself, and how you face things no matter what they are. Following this reasoning, if you were at the most beautiful scenic place ever invented, for example, mountains, a rainforest, or even on an old river, but feeling miserable, it would mean nothing. However, if you were at peace with yourself and the world, you could live in an old shed and be happy. Then I had another epiphany. What if, here we go, what if you had the scenery of your choosing, and the at-peace thing? What if you had the landscape of your dreams, the inner peace and true love, in for example, the Macquarie Marshes? And as an added bonus, colonies of water birds?

I drifted, with the possums now snuggled in the front of the boat. Normally I would view these as future dining prospects; not with, but as. But when the world was smiling, you don't want to eat little furry animals; you just want to cuddle them. I opened a package that Sheila had given me and it contained a huge hand of yellow bananas. There was a card that said, _Happy Birthday Tony, Thank you so much for calling in_. I shared the bananas with the possums, then they swam away. Ungrateful little swines. If I see you pair again, you're both going into a big pot.

The joy of meeting Sheila, the reflections on belonging through ancestry, and now the realisation that attitude and what you tell yourself is so crucial, I felt that nothing could ever throw me; nothing could go wrong. It was the same feeling after Rosie had gone; I was getting my head sorted.

When I left Trilby it was sad but a nice sad, because being with kindness given from the heart outlasts an early going away sadness by always returning as a warm love whenever you think about it. Sheila was holy; no other way to put it. I knew that then and I still know it now. Sheila, and not only because she had saved me, was beautiful. She was above this world; she was glowing with divinity. Big call I know, but to this day, I still think that.

I also decided that leaving people, if you knew it was always going to end anyway, a sort of inevitable thing with a recommended use-by date already printed on the label, was okay, like with Rosie back at Louth. It's a part of life that we must understand. I was now handling things really well and decided that I was becoming normal.

I wondered what if, the next time I started to feel all depressed, I could change my attitude? That is, the same rainy river of life but a different outlook. This really got me excited, could I change my attitude at the same place at different times from bad to good _without having an experience like Trilby in between_? In one masterful stroke I had solved any future depressive thoughts, any lonelinesses, any missing of Mum, any feeling like I didn't fit in from taking hold. Man I was flying. I would never complain again because I was starting to understand me.
22

Sandy beaches were invariably on the inside of a bend and were only available on a low river. When they were available they were my favourite camping spots. I would back paddle, skew in and then walk up and down, just looking around to see if there was a campsite available. There was the darker wet sand, and above this several shades of yellow that were drier and at least three feet above water level. This is where I would put the tent up with the opening facing away from the breeze, and then invoked the twelve foot rule. This meant that the boat, the tent, the campfire and the fishing lines were no more than twelve feet away from each other.

Wandering about riverbanks without shoes makes your soles become really tough. Shards of glass you kick out of the way; sword-like points of star-pickets or half a rusty forty-four gallon drum, not a problem. But there is one thing that will force you to wear shoes, one small item that will have you running for hobnailed boots. It is the little stick that pokes up, say two inches at maybe thirty degrees, that goes back into the ground for approximately three miles, and if you were to kick it you would require a new foot.

Behind a sandy beach was a world, while appearing to be brutal, random and desperate, was really a scene full of ongoing life. Under the mottled shadows of massive live river gums that were so tall and expansive they resembled gothic cathedrals, were piles of broken branches. This timber scrapyard, seemingly random, littered and lonely, gives tangled refuge to many creatures - furry, scaled or slippery.

Walking underneath a live tree was more risky than backchatting a parent, and as for camping under a river gum? Rocks in your head; a totally dangerous thing to do; you just never know when a branch of around fifty tons would drop. No warning; it's just _crack, whoosh_ , followed by _thump._ Then silence; as the bush counts its crushed and missing.

Hot summers restrict sap flow and can cause branches to fall, and of course a storm will break branches, but there's more to it. Massive white and grey arms, gravity-denying defying and opportunistic, stretching over their unwanted leftover brothers and sisters, will just sit there; watching and waiting, because if you camp within five miles of one, never mind directly underneath, those huge gums will talk amongst themselves. They have been known to leap out of the ground to flatten unwary campers. Roots, flaying dirt and rocks everywhere; seen them do it.

A sandy beach can be a land of softness that spreads dreams over your head so that you were protected from growing old; a possible Shangri-La place where you were swaddled in a bunny rug and could live forever. A place where fog escapes through the trees to make way for you, because you are far more important, much more special than a mist created in a different temperature; you are the creator, the maker of all things natural, and the one who can decide your future.

After I have smelled the atmosphere of the chosen campsite to make sure it's friendly, and kicked away the snakes, goannas and bulldog ants, I always collected enough wood for two fires; one for the night, and one for the next morning, and this second pile will get covered by a waterproof sheet. No chainsaw needed; just sticks. There is always a fallen tree close to a beach and it's best to use branches from as high as possible for your fire because the lower ones will have been inundated and be full of clay, and therefore burn black with little heat.

A clump of dead gum leaves as a fire starter can always be found under a live gum tree. I would then gather sticks and snap and stack them in order from thinnest to fattest, and all within reach. A ritual, done with love and respect goes beyond a disorder and becomes an internal reverence that allows personal security, unlimited growth, and in this scenario, possibly a burnt finger. Scrape a hole in the sand and stack twigs, chosen from the thin section, over the dead leaves, and then use only one match to give that most amazing smell; burning dead gum leaves. The smell, the light blue smoke; and then the inner comfort of the most amazing invention ever; the little campfire.

If you did have company at this little campfire, and if you were having a quiet conversation about something vitally important, it is the one time when it is legal not to make eye-contact as you listen, because the other person has moved off her log, and is there in the coals. And from her viewpoint, you would have done the same. If a family was sitting around a little campfire then it would get really crowded there in the coals.

Some people who have sat next to a little campfire may be reluctant to admit that Yes indeed they are campfire watchers; they may not divulge the stuff they think about. So to all non-bush people, in times of personal trouble, after you've had a hot shower and a cold beer, just slip out the back and light a little campfire. No psychiatrist's visits, no phone counselling, no pills; just a little campfire. Our cities could be throwing out a lot of smoke shortly. Night is better for the little campfire experience because the darkness shuts out other stuff, but there is a daylight one that is just as important. It does involve a little fire, and is called the coffee morning.

Sometimes when you meet someone for the first time it may not go well. You can either have a bad experience or pass judgement based on this initial meeting. But maybe the next time it's a little better, which can lead into a totally different mindset. The same can happen with drinks.

I was nine when I had my first Resch's pilsener and I recall suggesting to my liberal grandmother that the taste was somewhere between crushed stink beetles and sump oil. But after the next couple of glasses I was hooked. I love you Nana.

I had my first real coffee on Kibbutz Ginosar in 1975. Us banana workers met at first light under the water tower before tractoring out to the plantation, and our boss Benny Bananas, with his M16 constantly hanging off his shoulder (think it might have been Benny who used his machine gun one night to persuade a few visitors to go away), would make us a short black. I spat the first one out _. '_ Jeez Benny, this is mud.'

He smiled that slow smile that says I know something you don't but if you persist, you may know it too. Just like my Nana had done. By the end of the first week, Benny just looked across and nodded a little, because he knew that I now knew. And I also knew that my addiction to coffee was now set; thank you Israel.

When the tent has been packed, the campsite vacuumed, and the boat tugging gently on the rope like a catfish sucking on a worm, I look towards the morning campfire. There is a coffee pot that has been blooping patiently, and it is now the time to sit and contemplate the world. This time is different to the night campfire staring because for one, it's daylight (only just), and even though there is a little campfire, the mind is going outward as well as inward. It's not a campfire-stare meditation but a total awareness state of mind where all the body's senses are on high alert. This is freedom this is seeing without looking and this is also an acceptance from the bush. Wallabies will scramble down the bank to get a drink and they will watch with their ears doing that swivel thing; ducks will swim by scooping and sifting, and a great egret will land on a log real close to where you are sitting. The black eyes of grey shrike thrushes will sparkle and if you concentrate real hard, you can even hear insects talking.

To start the day with a coffee meant that you were ready; you had accepted the moment, and therefore yourself within it. The phoenix would rise out of the coals and give you a chance to live the day as anew, and your yesterdays need not impact because although the physical past cannot be changed - it was what it was - your attitude to it can change and therefore your past can be sort of changed, or forgotten-on-purpose, and then the phoenix could turn into another myth, the rainbow firebird, who will give guidance to help you reach the divine, (and remind you that it was probably time to visit the bathroom and clean your teeth - guessing you'd still be in divine territory doing those). But like a lot of personal symbols, you have to be ready. Ready to see and not merely look. If you're all cranky or rushed, these birds will not reveal themselves. Nor will the wallabies, thrushes or those chatting insects.
23

On the Darling, even with the ever-present bird calls, and it seemed someone was either whistling, humming or screeching, you would think that the sound of a motor would be clearly heard from a distance. And although, as has been mentioned near the Warrego, some sharp sounds carry across water at warp-speed, with motors this was not so. A small house pump could not be heard until you were on top of it and you would then have to be careful of pulley-belts and a hot exhaust, but the strangest non-sound was a motor boat. I realise I have said that was one of the reasons I chose not to have a motor and I stick by this because if you, or a bird for example, are close to a motor, then it's certainly audible.

Locals and visiting fishermen favour little tinnies that sit low in the water, with small outboards, and their noise, the motor's not the peoples', is really low. But when they are miles away, you certainly won't hear the motor, but you will know there's a tinnie out there somewhere because the river will tell you.

If you are just sitting, drifting, and pretending to be say, Huck Finn, Jim, or even yourself, you will feel a pulse under your boat, a subtle invisible movement; a time-warp of ripples. This could either mean there's a Great White tracking you or that there is a tinnie a couple of hundred miles away. Be no good if they wanted to sneak up on you. The tinnie I mean.

One morning, at sunrise, when there was an absence of three-sided shapes slicing through the water, when the soft light helped to melt the night, and had made the gum leaves translucently tinged on their edges, I stood at the water's edge, eyes closed, facing the sun; and practiced my throat singing. I considered myself to be an excellent singer. When we were kids, my brother and I sang in public. Weddings, birthday parties or in the back shed, it was all the same to us. We'd usually stand on tables, which gave me valuable practice for later years at Bachelor and Spinster Balls, and Chinese restaurants on a Friday night after ten; and we sang unaccompanied.

We'd start with _The Ballad of Davey Crocket,_ move swiftly onto _North to Alaska_ and if the crowd wasn't tossing crusts, plastic cups of beer half-empty and fried-rice, end proceedings with a recital of _The Owl and the Pussycat._ Riveting stuff. Everyone sings in West Dubbo; they don't go to parks to do Tai Chi, karate or yoga, no, they stand, hand on heart, and sing. Parts of The Sound of Music were filmed in West Dubbo, using Sandy Beach, Dubbo West Public School oval and a backyard in BumbleGumbie Road.

On the water's edge, I was pretending to be a warrior of the cold and windy plains, invoking nature and spirits, singing for the battles I had won and for all the fair maidens I would woo when I returned home, victorious, with my incredible wounds now healed, although the scars on my face and chest would be displayed for the maidens to understand that at some point I had demonstrated incredible fearless bravery. Or maybe the scars were from when I got drunk and cut myself shaving; I can't remember. Let's not go into details here.

On this particular morning, I had some helpers. There were wallabies doing bass (with their thumping tails, and heads jerking up and down in time), catfish clapping their fins in time (this would appear to be difficult, but I saw them clapping their two lower fins underneath __ their bellies, so cop that), echidna zydeco players (they rubbed back and forth on a low log - sideways of course), and the accompanying deep choral backing voices of a flock of bronzewing pigeons, (they were perched horizontally and swayed in time). Even though I couldn't hear a motor, I sensed I had company. I stopped groaning, held my arm high to stop the troops, and opened my eyes. I saw an over-loaded boat with burly bearded blokes, slowly motoring past.

Of course I hadn't heard them, apart from my noisy, and talented throat-singing, and the racket made by the Darling River Folk Ensemble (the world premiere of the polyphonic tradition), it was that quiet motor thing. Not knowing really what to say here, I also kept quiet; always a good option; one learned previously from hotels throughout inland Australia.

Then these huge hairy men, all four of them, squished in the tinnie like baby apostle birds in a mud nest, killed the motor; and they did something that still gives me the tingles. All four did a number from Showboat. They sang ' _Old Man River'_ , which, although an appropriate locatory choice, should have been sung in baritone to honour Paul (these blokes were tenors). However, as I listened in awe to real singing, they just kept rolling along and their momentum took them around the corner. I stood for a couple of minutes trying to work out what the hell just happened, and couldn't do so. I was left with a low V of ripples and an open mouth.

Two days later I saw a large camp up on top of the bank. I went up to have a sticky and saw the four tenor blokes. Turned out they were from Melbourne, and I let it be known here that every camper I met on the Darling, came from Victorian towns that start with M; Mildura, Mandurama, or Macquarie Island, and these fellows were pig shooters, not fishermen, just like the blokes on the lower Macquarie inc. one Mr James Rose who saved my life - sort of.

'Well, we like to drift on the river and even though our little motor is really quiet, we see more without it, so we putter upstream and then float back down, quietly looking at things. '

'Are you birdwatchers?'

'No, not at all. Wouldn't have a clue. We are singers.'

Wouldn't have guessed. As they showed me their setup, nothing was said about the morning of singing. Obviously I had out-sung them and they were too embarrassed to bring it up.

They had a thirty-foot long trestle, seven large freezers and an even larger generator. If the Melbourne power station ever gets a lightning strike, the boys could roll their genny in, fire it up and Victoria, the remainder of Australia and even Norfolk Island and New Zealand, would be able to watch telly. You'd need quite a long cord for the last mob and of course there'd be a major problem; they just don't make 1600 mile long extension cords anymore. You'd have to have lots of joins, and if some fool pulled a bit too hard... _Hang on a tick, I think she's caught on something, probably another one of those bloody Humpback Whales; I'll just give it a tug._ zzzzzzt _Hey, what happened?_

Three would go out shooting, and one would stay behind cutting the previously shotten pigs into little pieces for storage in the freezers. I saw bits of fox, cat, and boar.

'Aren't they a bit tough, those old hairy blokes?'

'No,' he said, 'we actually prefer eating old boar. It helps our vocal chords.'

I chose not to air my veterinarical knowledge of the diseases associated with feral pigs because:

a) They were removing feral animals that were destroying western New South Wales, and each pig was also one less that would try to kill me,

b) I chose not to believe him and I was still eating wild pigs anyway, and

c) these blokes could sing really well.
24

If you live in Tilpa, eternal life is yours. There are no hot springs, gurus, or medical interventions; it's just that the cemetery has no graves. Maybe they toss their dead people off the bridge. Researchers in their laboratories are currently investigating Tilpa as one of the world's hotspots for having a healthy ageing population. The locals are puzzled that no-one has ever travelled out and asked them. 'We're so healthy and fit because we drink the water straight from the Darling River.' Which would have only cost the researchers petrol money and a round of drinks at the Tilpa Hotel.

The Tilpa Hotel had no barmaids, so my list of what was needed before Trilby still came up as incomplete. But it didn't matter anyhow, because I had just completed a post-grad in how to change an attitude. Sometimes when you think you're somewhere, you're not at that somewhere; you're at a somewhere else, which is quite far from just anywhere. Still, the thought was comforting. For the minute. Maybe Rosie would be at a pub in the next town, Wilcannia. I also didn't ask Rosie why she chose hotels along the Darling, or what it was she was looking for. Didn't ask a lot of things. Found them out later though.

The Royal Hotel, Tilpa, was the most amazing hotel I have ever been to. This claim goes beyond at least twelve Olde English pubs, four Scottish Taverns and the Railway Hotel in North Dubbo. Not because it's over a hundred years old, not because it had a blue cattle dog as a bouncer, but because it incorporates the locals, tourists and its wider community better than all the others joined together. The Tilpa hotel has a risqué painting and it has a corkboard with dodgy jokes, some of which are so vulgar I can't repeat them here. And it also has the walls of names.

You give a donation to the Royal Flying Doctor Service, which flies in once a month, and you get to write your name on the wall of the hotel. You can throw your neck out reading some of the comments. I wrote, _Thank God Louth patrons don't come down river._

George Townsend the publican, a fairly quiet bloke, filled my kero bottle and wouldn't hear of me paying for it. What else can I get you, he asked.

In the bar, a bloke said, 'Gidday mate, name's Bill, the missus died of cancer and I'm an alcoholic.'

'Please to meet you Bill; Tony. Travelling down the river. Friendly town you've got here.'

'Yeah I spose; gettin' a bit crowded though.' (Tilpa's population: six.) He leaned over, gave me a fistful of money. 'Here,' he said, 'Something to help you along in your travels. Wish I could do what you're doin'.

'You mean birdwatching on the old gutter?'

'Nah, running away.'

He saw through me within thirty seconds. Must be losing my touch. All you had to do was sit at the bar and an endless stream of Greek philosophers would enter and engage you in stimulating conversation, usually cutting straight to truth, exposing denial, secrets and not a few fantasies.

'You like Louth?'

'Hell yeah, lovely place. Why-do-you-ask?' Here we go.

'We meet a bloke driving around Australia - name's Blue; his wife was Ginger - said they were known as the red nomads. Anyway, they're from Perth. Apparently there's a story the boys back home have to tell me about an incident back at Louth involving a barmaid and a traveller.'

'Really?' About then I decided to donate again and write on the back wall, _Don't listen to gossip about an incident in Louth on the 10 May 1977._

Fred Davidson, the postmaster, and his lovely wife Jan, gave me a house to stay in next to the post office; the old punt man's cottage. Fred delivered my mail; in an eight-ton truck. As he unloaded the bundles, he told me knew exactly where I was on the river before I even got there. I wondered how it was that my mail would turn up tucked in the rafters of woolsheds, in pouches of wallaroos, and swagmen who would reach into their swags and say, 'You Pritchard? From Fred.'

In 1977 a twenty-cent stamp would get your letter to anywhere in Australia; a brilliant concept, and a vital social bringing together of love, information or incarceration. Letters talk to me before I open them. I give them a good feel, have a smell, turn them over a few times, then put them in a reverse order of specialness, with the best last. The windows are always first, you need to clear the air in readiness for the good ones.

_Dear Mr Pritchard, if you don't pay your outstanding debt at once, you will be subpoenaed to appear before a Small Claims Tribunal_.

Straight into the fire with that one. Next in order were the unknown letters. These had no sender name on the back, no perfume, no dirty drawings - I mean, how can I put them down in the order? You give me nothing to work on. Then the ones from Dad, often rolled in newspapers. Together these had footy news, Dubbo car accidents, price of beef, and results from pigeon races. Then the ones from old girlfriends in Dubbo - soo many of these _I miss you_ - yeah yeah - _when you coming back to Dubbo_? Never; get a grip girls.

Old mates were next. _Hey, why did you let me do all your tackling?_ _Why do you drift down a river? Not still birdwatching are you? You found anyone yet?_ Blah blah.

Then the really special ones - all I needed to see on the back of an envelope was 'Rosie' and that letter went straight to the bottom of the pile. To be relegated to last that was really the first.

_Hoi river boy, Doing what you are doing, well, you are my hero because you dared to dream beyond a dream. Stay in that boat and I'll see you downriver in a little while,_

_Your girl Rosie._

And I had no return address but that was okay. If Rosie said she'd see me downriver then so it would be.

The genuine hospitality of the Tilparians was extraordinary. It was more than a Let's give this poor fellow a feed have a look at him will you, it was the genuine love of giving to a stranger, a sharing a life based on pride in a magnificent part of the world. They didn't care I didn't drink, that I had known rejection, or mention if they thought I liked men. This is acceptance at its ultimate. I am so moving to Tilpa, to write witty things on the pub wall, run sheep and stuff. Everyday, seriously, there was a knock on the door and a local would invite me out to his or her station, to have a meal and to show me around. Two jillaroos called in. Hey, they said, we are about halfway to Wilcannia, when you're down our way, why don't you call in? And indeed I did, and I left them a beautiful present; a gift which inspired them to change their lives and a gift which one year afterwards made me rethink about life and death.

Dad heard on the local news that I had been in the Flying Doctor's plane and thought something had happened to me, so he phoned the Tilpa Post Office. Dad didn't say, Hi Fred, Max Pritchard here, how's my son Tony going? Have those pigs finally got him? Brown snake was it? How's his knees? No, all he said was, How's Skinny?

For heaven's sake, how on earth was Fred Davidson supposed to work out that was my nickname from when I was a gangly ten year old? And seeing my fantastic physique now as a comparison, I mean really, how would he know? When Fred answered, apparently he said, 'Tony's fine, he only went to see the Flying Doctor to see how it all works. My word he asks lots of questions. He always been like that, Max?'

The Royal Flying Doctor's Service aeroplane is a flying intensive care unit packed with angels. It is available twenty-four hours a day, and the locals, and everyone else in Australia, reveres these angels. Today, this being 2015, the RFDS has a fleet of 63 aircraft operating from 21 bases located across the nation and provides medical assistance to over 290,000 people every year - that's one every two minutes. And we search for heroes?

I heard news reports on the wireless about how I had been on the river for a year (almost true), how I had been living off the land (when they invent a chocolate tree, I'm in) and that I had a prophet-like beard and was exceedingly virtuous, handsome and worthy of fame (true and very true, true and true). I wasn't sure who was passing these items on and I heard several versions. The word unusual was often mentioned. It was said that I never washed, and that I was outspoken against the dumping of empty beer bottles, as well as certain farming practices along the river, like cutting trees on the riverbank, or the over-allocation of irrigation licences. Being thought of as unusual was okay and non-washing bits didn't concern me, but the last item while being true, did make me uneasy because I was a coward. And when it was passed on to me personally, that if I didn't desist in my vocal opposition to those certain farming practices I would be keelhauled, I decided that perhaps from this point on I should do normal things, like have a hot bath on a more regular basis and only talk about birds.

Yet I fed the inaccuracies that made out I was a rough bushie, and I also loved being thought of as different and welcomed by people because of it. A sort of temporary changing of one person into another; one that is disgusted by being a show pony, yet having such a persona that is imagined, sought, and then indirectly promoted; an attention that is acknowledged by inference only, a hinted and sideways plea, and one that is then upheld through exaggeration. Basically, I was too gutless to admit that, Yes I like telling lies and I like the attention of being different.

I also heard about a paddle steamer coming down from Bourke, called the Balmain Bullet. I was to meet this boat in Wilcannia and while I was there I also found a gorgeous barmaid.
25

At the start of this trip I thought that solitude would be a way to get inside my head and have a look around. One thing I found in there was an ongoing circular spiral, an introversion, a social avoidance. Sometimes I was scared of meeting people. Perhaps I didn't need them anyway. Why bother; it's all too hard.

After Tilpa, I purposely avoided people, which was enjoyable yet scary at the same time. Enjoyable for the independence and the feeling of light-headed universal insignificance (in a nice way) but scary in what developed. Avoiding human contact can lead to insularity and that can give a fear of certain things that seem greater and more fearful than they really are, and they can, will, and did, bring me down. I'm fine now thanks. Of course, just how fine is relative to your views on sanity; mine took a hit a bit later. I also talked to myself continually (although this is not a particularly new concept) and even had a few arguments (which I usually lost).

I realised that being isolated could create an isolated mind and introduce a fear of going crazy, a sort of neurosis of how I thought I should be, and feel, rather than just being. So I created me as part of myself that thought it should be; and this was more than a wish, or a self-fulfilling prophesy. It became a way of being, a belief just because I could, and because I wanted it to be so. Fantasies that were an expression of insecurity. Fantasies that made me appear greater than I could ever be and after being around such wonderful people at Tilpa, this was a bit of a worry. It was like I couldn't let my guard down and be me. Being alone in an isolated place emphasised small thoughts and insecurities into blown-up neurosis; a Paranoia of Realities.

I had shaggy hair, a long beard made of barbed-wire and any part of my body not covered by clothing turned black and became cracked like a piece of wood that had been left out in the weather for fifty thousand years. My legs were so hardened I couldn't feel icy water. __ Once I smelt something burning; thought I had dragged that wild pig out of the coals. Then I realised it was my feet that were on fire.

Quite often I went tentless and slept on the ground next to the campfire. Back in Tilpa I had asked a bloke, 'What if you buried some coals, and then slept on top? Be like a natural electric blanket.'

He reckoned that when the heat died away, the newly cold ground would draw your body heat out and this would be the fastest way known to mankind to get pneumonia, whooping cough and acne. He said the locals slept with their dogs. Probably better than sleeping with cygnets, although their nest had better insulation than a dusty dog.

It was cold, not the wet kind, but a sharp winter cold. On some of the slightly warmer days I didn't wear a shirt. I turned into a crayfish and could even go underground, which wasn't muddy and wet like you would think, but moist and cool. You might also think well that would be cold then and how would you survive without getting arthritis, dandruff and frostbite, but it's the same as those huskies that curl up in the snow. I could dig into the soil but also come out when conditions were right; an earth amphibian. I heard things calling to me; dead people, spirits, and sirens. Not police ones, the other ones. I wondered if this was where I might belong. A little scary, but the truth is sometimes so. I wondered was this the bush madness I had heard about. The one where you disown mankind and retreat into an isolated existence and fade away into the bush not wanting to talk to anyone. Even though this inner satisfaction of acknowledged craziness stopped me from going completely insane, one has to have limits. I thought perhaps it was time I thought about going back to town for company, a haircut and a wash. Although, looking and smelling like a hairy mammal had saved me from being eaten by a crazed monster of the night.

I was asleep in a hollow log, the ground that night being too hard to dig in, and my face blackened with charcoal so the enemy's operatives wouldn't see me (admit it, you've done this), when I was woken by a soft noise, one that didn't fit. It's like all the mothers in the world when their baby is asleep nearby and a leaf falls onto a roof - four miles away. You know what I'm saying; you become alert, ready to fight. Don't say this hasn't happened to you, possible on the same day as your undercover spy thing. And so, lying still, I opened my eyes, real wide; aware and ready to rip someone into little bite-size pieces with my bare hands; you couldn't do that with gloves on. Just like the mothers mentioned previous would do to protect their baby. A large shadow came over me and I thought, Hello, either we still have dinosaurs out here, or one of those gum trees is taking his nightly walk. They do that, just stroll around, getting a bit of exercise.

A huge Euro had walked over to my log. Euros are a sort of stocky kangaroo thing. They are an orangey brown colour, have very soft fur and that's also like their odour; a warm orange smell. They don't walk like people walk. They sort of bend and amble on little paws and huge legs, using their tail, like the kangaroos did moving out of the way of that low-flying aeroplane back near Trilby. This baby leaned forward and looked straight into my eyes. He was about two inches away from my face and this was a little unsettling. Even in this pale moonlit night, with a smidgin of blue starlight, I could see his hazel eyes and long curved eyelashes. Quite pretty, though not quite as nice as a camel's, and he sniffed. He stuck his muzzle into my throat, and then up and down my curled up body, which was currently a wound up rubber band; waiting to be released and induce havoc among the riverbank's inhabitants. This giant euro then stood up, tall as the memories of all ancient furry things three million years old, turned to the other two euros, who were waiting to see whether they should continue down the bank or go home and watch a movie, and gave them the nod and they too ambled down the bank.
26

If you have the sleep where you only get in a few hours because of worrying that you haven't finished that written report for the boss, the _Oh dear I'm in trouble_ sleep __ you will have no bliss, and certainly no dreams. You will toss about and consider yourself lucky to wake up at all after that. Or if you have a sleep after drinking too much beer, you won't have a clue where you are during this sleep, or when you wake up, because your head will be over on the dressing table. Then there's the sleep when you are so emotionally tired, drained and flat with a strong mental exhaustion, not a physical tiredness, for example, the mother-of-young-children.

If I drink coffee after eight a.m., I don't sleep that night, the following night or for several following that, but when I do sleep, I would do so for around ten hours. A deep, very deep sleep, full of dreams. And I then write them all down soon as I wake up, because if I didn't my brain would say, 'I need the space,' and delete them.

Dreams are a way of the universe, in its total _no-one will ever fully understand me_ sense, of letting you know that you're either nuts or you've got it together. Either way, know your place if you can and if you dare. Dreams have no halfway; they are either crazy or they are okay; both being a reflection of your message to you. Dreams also know when you are ready for them, and that you are ready to be taken away to that fantasy world, where dreams not only come true, they are true to begin with. And they mix up stuff from your past, the book you have been reading, and what happened during that day. They make a feeble attempt to disguise all this because dreams run the biggest metaphors ever, but you really know what happened and exactly who is in them because as you dream you can look in as yourself on yourself. It's like daylight looking in and seeing in the dark, and completely understanding that dark; a torch of knowledge. You are a participant as well as an outsider in your own life. It's like being honest with yourself; deep down you just know why you do stuff. And, even better, if you've had a late-ish cup of tea, and therefore have to struggle outside to have a pee, well when you snuggle back in to bed, perhaps annoyed that you relented for that last cup of tea, you can re-put yourself back into the dream.

After deep dreams, sometimes more than three each night, I would wake quietly and feel totally refreshed, ready to proceed into the daylight and what it might bring. A soft... quiet... beauteous... still... harmony... and confident feeling because my brain had done one of its jobs and I had just experienced lessons, fun, adventure, and maybe even some naughty activities.

But there is someone that may disrupt these dreams on purpose; a bird no less. The willie wagtail.

Nocturnal usually means just that. There are many bird species in this category and if you see these fellows during the daytime, well, it's not a nice sight. They have red eyes, uncombed hair and crumpled clothes, and are so cranky you'd best be avoiding them. But there is one who seems to be nocturnal and diurnal; the Willie Wagtail. Yes they're all domesticated; sort of. You see them in suburbia, around farm houses and even at a football grand final. They will chatter incessantly, wag their tails, and are deemed as friendly, harmless and cute.

But they have a dark side. Wagtails often call out during the night, (probably because they drink coffee after lunch), and this is when and where this dark side shines. They have been labelled as Black-of-the-Night-Preachers, bearers of bad news, the stealer of secrets and dreams, bad omens, as informers to the dead of anyone who has bagged them (the dead ones) and generally not nice birds.

One night I was dragged out of a dream by willie-wagtails. This dream was very personal, and was developing nicely. These sweet, pretty creatures were trying to outdo one another; a duelling banjo of wagtails. They wouldn't stop when I asked them so I threatened them. _Listen you lot, this is not going to end well. Don't make me come out there. I've got contacts up high you know, and I'm not scared to call in favours._

This is what I do now; harass willie wagtails at two a.m. They called for reinforcements and then there were four of them chattering away, and while this may be seen as nature at its best etc., these little people were on the top of my tent. Then a tawny frogmouth joined in, making that throbbing hum with his mouth closed; usually between eighteen and twenty-two ooms per exhale. A boobook owl; _mopoke mopoke_ added his bit. Anyone else out there in night-time bird land want to join in? And you don't have to wear a black and white suit to get past the bouncer.

I knew that willie wagtails would steal secret dreams, and I lay there, a little annoyed, that I had been woken and knew that my dreams had just been stolen. And that is why wagtails chatter at night; to wake you up just to indicate, _Okay buddy, I've got you now._ Whenever I see a willie wagtail now, and Brisbane is full of them, my head goes down and I cover my face. You wouldn't want one recognising you at say, a family gathering. Hey people, you should see what he dreams about!
27

_They were two. By day they were fearless explorers, by night they shared a bed. One had a strong odour; the other had four legs._

That's me and Herb.

_By my order we took no prisoners._ From _Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ by T. E. Lawrence.

I sucked nectar, ate wild greens torn from the dirt and ripped into half-cooked meat with my foot holding it down. I could now slide through the bush with an upright shadow, and stay still for hours until it was right to attack. I shot pigs, foxes, kangaroos and goats and ate them all. I shot as many feral cats as I could, but not for dinner. I hated them more than anything else on the planet, except perhaps for cane-toads, a certain priest and bad coffee, and I tracked them down and murdered them. I had seen feral cats, huge monsters of things, chewing on freshly killed ducks, eagles and lambs. Please believe me about the last one. These cats climbed, dug, and bounded across the land like cheetahs, and I pursued them relentlessly. Mind you, just using straight .22 longs had little effect. These cats were so tough they caught the longs and ate them, or if I did get a body hit, the bullet went straight through and did no damage. Truly, feral cats are that tough. So I had to change to hollow points. Don't ask about hollow-point bullets. Do some research; that's why we have public libraries, old people and the internet.

I decided to swap the rifle for a spear, just to give things a fair chance because I was such a deadly shot, and also had a knife sheathed and strapped to my hip. My intention was to creep through the bush until I saw quarry, run it down, spear it, then cut its throat. And so, armed with an eight-foot thin length of Acacia, hardened and sharpened over a fire, I used great stealth to glide around billabongs and between Coolabah Trees, all the while stepping over camping swagmen. I pretended I was El Aruns, galloping toward Tafileh on my camel, hundreds of Arabs behind me, all waving rifles and yelling. _I say lads,_ I would say to them, in Arabic of course, _keep it down a bit will you? Trying to be all stealthy here. By the way, it's Take-No-Prisoners Monday._

Was I answering a primeval call? If I was, I hope they put enough coins in so it wouldn't cut out at a crucial moment, when they were about to tell me the ending. Life was so uncomplicated then; you could kill things and enjoy it.

I crept; spear ready, along the outside banks. There weren't as many secretive places there as on the inside where the larger river red gums grew, with their offloaded branch hiding places, and deep dark shadows. I saw some lignum bushes to hide behind. But now the wind had turned around and was wrong, from my point of view anyway, and I advanced; against better judgement. This is quite a dangerous occupation, stalking with the wind, because you send out a notice that arrives by priority mail well before you get to the destination. Lignum can grow to be quite a huge scrubby bush and when you re-appear from behind its cover, you might come across a birthday party, a shopping mall or a ferocious animal. When you stalk something with intent, your eyes widen, your muscles tense and everything else jangles. I peeked around some bushes and saw twenty pigs, a mob of kangaroos, a fox, a wedge-tailed eagle on a low branch and a couple of goats with a plump kid; an enticingly edible kid. The kangaroos smelt me first; then they all ran; the pig, the roos, the fox, the goats, the kid and the eagle. No wait, the last one flew. And the kangaroos didn't run, they bounded. I tried that one day, that hopping thing, and managed two hops before falling over. They all went to the birthday party and I raced after that kid. No need for the spear; I was fast back then.

I chased, he swerved this way and that, and I swerved after him; then I dived. There was a cloud of dust, I barked my shins and did a face plant; but I had him. I held the goat down, paused and looked around, and made sure his dad wasn't about to ram his horns into my kidneys, then decided to take my meal back to camp. Lawrence would have sacked me.

'Wait Rashid, no prisoners.'

'Aruns, I can make this one talk. See if we get some of their secrets. Why they never use deodorants, stuff like that. Then we eat him.'

As I carried him over my shoulders, pretending I was a member of Lawrence's elite bodyguard (recently offered a redundancy package because I hadn't followed orders), the kid who was trembling in fear, peed; and it ran hot down my neck and back. When you know you're about to die, maybe that's what happens. You're getting ready for the Big Journey and you've just read the baggage allowance and realise woops, I need to jettison. He then nuzzled into me, suckled my fingers and bleated softly. _Hey,_ I said, __ all fierce and warrior-like, _Do not do that. I am about to question you then eat you, and you are what, trying to adopt me?_

In those days I was devastating death; I was to be feared. I killed things then I drank their blood. Noticed my incisors were tending to be pointy lately. Nothing could stop me; not being peed on, not being responsible for creating a fear of death and certainly not by fluttering eyelashes; that sort of rubbish doesn't work on me. I was the white hunter; a silent killer, precise and merciless. Back at camp, he refused to answer my questions and asked could he make that one phone call, but I was having none of this rubbish. I drew my razor-sharp knife out; and exposed his throat.

You don't understand what it's like; being a hunter is hard. I looked into his little terrified eyes and hesitated. Damn you I say. I made some warm milk for Herbie, and yes, of course he had a name now. I used the milk powder I had for my morning porridge. How could I not share? He was so sweet, and he then became a part of the expedition. You can't eat wild goat. You never know what diseases they may have. Could be worse than drinking blood. Or eating feral pigs. A vet from Bourke told me that. Each night Herbie snuggled next to me in the tent. He liked my woollen blankets, which now smelt rancid, because that's how goats smell, except this one didn't smell like that anymore, he had rubbed it all off onto me and the blankets. When he got too big for the boat, I had to swim behind and push because there was no room left for me.

I left Herbie, with instructions, at the station with the two jillaroos I had met back in Tilpa. 'Now girls,' I implored, 'Make sure you wipe his mouth clean after you feed him.' Even though Herb was now the size of an elephant, he wasn't weaned. Even at that size, they still need a mother's nourishment.

'You must really love this little goat. Look how he nuzzles into you. Where did you find him?'

'Rescued him, shivering and all scared, from under his dead mother. Had to save him from huge feral cats. And things.'

'Oh, you are such a nice man. You must really love animals.' She turned to her friend and whispered, ' _He's probably a vegetarian. You know, can't kill things.'_
28

When I was staring at the stove at Trilby, I had thought that Quests were always about a search and the end point would solve the problem and illuminate the soul with a clarity that glowed much brighter than a kerosene lantern. The meaning of life would come after __ the long and difficult journey, a when-you-have-arrived-type of light, after the arduousness was completed. Things changed a little just after Trilby when I discovered my new and improved _How to Change your Attitude Manual_ (first edition) but I was still of the mindset that enlightenment came after and not during. Another thing came my way to challenge this, and it seemed that it wasn't so much the event as it was the way of looking at it.

The fantasies and the hunting slowed a little. What you get for hanging around a little goat. I was feeling warm in the head, not from an illness, just a sort of calmness and peace. Don't know where it came from, but it was nice. Maybe it was because I had not eaten little Herbie? But then, how can a goat have such a changing effect; how ridiculous. I was more aware of every little thing, like the wind and the light, and I moved slowly, physically slowly, and saw something I must have been ready for without knowing it.

I drifted around a corner and hit paradise in one go.

I saw a pristine sandy beach, soft in the early afternoon sunlight, and it sent out an embrace, a reaching out of memories, and the reason why I had a longing for this river. I pulled in, and stayed for six days.

Had I found it; a physical place of belonging, a place where life's meaning lived? There had been a shower of rain and a mist that now slowly moved back through the huge gum trees and unveiled a white and yellow sandy beach; with no tracks. There was a sign nailed to a tree; it said, _Welcome; you could be home._ _It's up to you._

Everything became focused in a slow motion of awareness; I could see the eucalyptus leaves turning their thin vertices toward the sun, their sharp curves stiff and their moisture conserved, I could smell the scent of flowers that were yet to open their buds, flowers that were all around now, and flowers that had turned to seed, and I could feel the soft breeze on my face because I was travelling at a thousand miles an hour through space. The banks seethed with wildlife, hiding yet visible, like a little kid trying to hide behind a Hill's Hoist; huge murray cod cruised in the deep backwash like tiger sharks, and a peaceful dove called cook-a-wook cook-a-wook. Hope the wooks didn't mind. Red-tailed black cockatoos, way out of their geographical area, muttered high up in the gum trees and then later at sunset, flew down to drink. I needed no deep thinking here, done way too much back further. Here was the pure enjoyment and love for a river; a river that allowed me to breathe deeply.

This was the Darling River of my Dad's stories, and I was the Dubbo kid who now became that dusty fisherman sitting there next to the water, inside the steep banks, and now, because you are drifting past in a virtual tinnie, with a wheat bag to rest the paddle on, just in case you do something dodgy and need to escape silently, I would like to invite you to come and join me for a cup of hot black sweet tea. You have been a part of this journey, so come over to me. We will catch a mottled murray cod, and we will honour him as we eat him; we will share our memories, we will just sit next to a small campfire and become a part of this Shangri-La on the Darling. It was mythical once, now real, although somewhat dreamy, and would again become a legend as soon as we leave. It will stay in our memories as we turn into fat baldy people with saggy bits and we spread the word of love and peace. I often talk to imaginary people; this time someone was there next to me; a real person. Maybe it was you; maybe it was God, same thing maybe. In the background I could hear clacking sticks, droning didgeridoos, wailing voices, stomping feet; and laughter. I was here and I knew it. The path to self-enlightenment, to belonging and inner peace, had it reached the end? Had the quest quested? I wasn't at the end of the river journey and there was no journal with answers, but maybe I didn't need them. This idea was confusing, yet strange and powerful.

I had found the valley of harmony, the rich cool earth, the deep smells of life where the wisdom of the elders is stored for others, where no-one is better than anyone else, where all beliefs are cherished and respected, where life is reduced to its common truths and these are celebrated within the differences that will always arrive in interpretations and cultures. No-one will be called wog anymore; we will be pilgrims loving life and exploring our own soul finding inner calm on our journey. After those mists have risen the clarity will offer a way, where pigs will always be black, and the coffee supply will never run out. The ancient red gums, the grey clay, the curved line of the milky-tea carpet snake were mine forever.

I also realised that I was seeing myself maybe for the first time. I started to feel a bit who am I; a bit of inner belonging; not just to this physical place but to myself; for six days anyway. Please sir, how do you make it last longer?

I may never be able to find this place again. There are quite a few bends in one hundred and eighty-three river miles between Tilpa and Wilcannia. I may not find it again, not because I won't ever go back there, but because my mind may not be where it needs to be to find it. And when I did go back the following year, from Tilpa to Wilcannia, I had my eyes closed; all the way. Amazing what you can do with your eyes closed and your brain removed.

I also may not find it because I gave my maps away. All the way on this trip I had maps, and except for a small incident involving the I-told-you-revenge-was-no-good bit near the Warrego junction, and the inland lake of the Culgoa/Barwon junction, they were mostly accurate. They gave me enough detail of contours, stations and the bends of the river. Each day I marked where I camped including this magical place. I also marked where I saw canoe trees. These were mostly in red gums and they had a scar from back in the old days when the aborigines removed a sheet of bark to make a canoe. Millions of canoes. Some were still visible on dead trees and these trees would soon crumble and I thought that if could I record the ones I saw, then someone could use this information. Some days there were so many canoe trees I reckoned the early people must have had a large navy. Probably enough to beat Drake and the Spanish at the same time. Maybe that's what happened to the Chinese navy. After conquering the world, beating the Dutch, the French and the Portuguese, they thought they'd come to the Darling and complete the take over, but no; wham; the boys flogged them.

There were two canoe trees here, just behind my tent, and one had steps chopped leading up to the canoe-taken bit, grown over but visible. At the end of this trip I sent all my maps to someone to show where these canoe trees were, and I can't recall who that was; maybe an author or an anthropologist.

Maybe it's a good thing to leave something as magic and to be never able to find it again. I left the Shangri-La on good terms, with fond memories knowing that I would return. My heart would guide me. There would be trust, and when we met again, no-one would be asking awkward questions about other sandy beaches. Just the joy of meeting an old friend again, to snuggle together and glad to be able to do so. Wouldn't mind my maps back though. Wonder where I sent them

_Dear Dad the Old Man, Back in Tilpa the Royal Flying Doctor Service let me look inside the plane. Imagine needing help and angels arrive out of the sky (because that's where they live - you know, up there with mum) and comfort you? I guess they must fold their wings in the plane. Be hard to strap a parachute on. But then, if you're an angel, you wouldn't need one. I suppose they fly in a plane because they have to carry all that medical gear. Maybe it's quicker too. If one brought out an LP, you could write on the front cover, _This person has the voice of an angel.

_A little while ago I became accepted into a new club. The fees are quite reasonable and we don't meet very often, and then it's usually in the dark. The members are friendly, though they tend to get a little personal, and they smell like warm orange fur. You know who I mean right?_

_Thanks for the letters you pass on and news of the pigeons. Wouldn't mind a game of squash. A few locals have got tennis courts, might see can I get a game. Show them how to hit a ball properly. Thinking of moving to just below Tilpa when I finish this trip; I know, another place. On my way to Wilcannia right now. I'm a bit short on fishing line, keep getting snagged. Sure I'll find some there. All the stories you told me about the Darling, its sloping banks, the pigs, the Murray Cod, the birds, all came together here, at a spot below Tilpa. The Darling has been like this all along of course, but here it seemed to make it all mean something special. Talk soon, The Skinny One -_

_The extra ps bit I forgot. Fred at the Tilpa Post office reckons you're an okay bloke. Said you guys talked about the wet years of the fifties, and something about a big bash in New Guinea._
29

World famous cities usually have a landmark that defines them. For example, Paris has the Eiffel Tower, Cairo has the Pyramids, and West Dubbo has the gum tree I planted in 1963. Australian country towns are no different; some have a large piece of fruit, or a music festival; and one has an Elvis impersonation weekend, which could be viewed as a combination of the previous two.

Wilcannia could of course claim that it nurtured Edward Dickens and Fred Trollope, sons of the writers; it could boast that in the late 1800s it was the third biggest port in Australia, including seaports, with its paddlesteamer trade, and its lift-span bridge, the first bridge crossing of the Darling between Wentworth and Bourke; or it could mention that in the mid-1880s it had thirteen hotels and a population of around fifteen. I made that last bit up; there were at least twenty-six. Which is what is known in mathematical terms, as a Perfect Ratio. But no, Wilcannia can brag that one of its two breweries, the Red Lion, was founded and owned by Edmund Resch, and his family was to give us Resch's Pilsener, the working man's beer, or to those of us in Dubbo who were too young to work, it was known as a substitute for mother's milk. This brewing history beats all of the above, as well as and including the extraordinary Paakantji history of some 40,000 years, the most magnificent sandstone buildings ever built, the Celtic, Chinese, Portuguese and Afghan settlers, the inland explorers, and of course, the best river on the planet.

None of those are worth bragging about; Edmund Resch is why Wilcannia is famous. Should be a statue of him next to a schooner of his beer. You could make it into a fountain with real Resch's Pilsener coming out.

I have in my possession an unfilled order form for Resch's Brewery (invoice number 1127) in Reid Street, Wilcannia. It says, _Please receive from E. Resch in good order and condition..._ (don't they mean the same thing?) I could fill in the blanks thus... _Please supply T. Pritchard of Brisbane, 30 hogsheads of Pilsener._ This invoice, filled or not, means that I can not only be taken to a place of beer, but also to a paddle steamer and a barmaid.

The Balmain Bullet was the steam-powered raft I had heard about in Tilpa, and six Sydneysiders steered her from Bourke to the Murray. Their radio antenna mast just scrapped under the Wilcannia bridge, then unlifted, by a couple of inches. The captain and crew were cheered in by a large crowd. The Shire President, Jim Robertson, put on a pig on a spit to welcome the Bullet, and it was my good fortune to have rocked up at the same time, because I was invited to join in. This was at the Court House Hotel run by Alan and Dot Ward. A rendition of Welcome to Wilcannia, was belted out on the bar top by a local school teacher, Robert Lindsay. I enjoyed the Bullet's crew company immensely and I sometimes slept next to their boiler, and even with this warmth, one morning I woke with ice in my beard. Anthony told me how the Bullet's tall antenna structure had knocked down a bloke's telegraph line that had been stretched across the river.

'Took it straight out, gone.'

I said, 'My goodness, poor bloke. Where did it happen?'

'Oh, just near the Warrego junction.'

'Near the Warrego you say? What was his name?'

'O'Readon, you know him?'

'Nuh, never met him.'

As well as celebrating all things Balmain Bullet and appreciating the social history, I had something else to do. I went to see if any of the other hotels had a barmaid I might know.

Rosie put her hand on mine. Sometimes you want someone in a pub to do this. 'Have I met you?'

'You'd like to'

'Beer?'

'Nope, just a lemon squash thanks.'

I had found her. Eight weeks since Louth; eight weeks of turning into a marsupial, of finding a special place, and eight weeks of missing my love. Among the Dickenses, the Trollopeses, and the future statue of Edmund Resch, I had found Rosie and she was working in the roughest pub in town.

Never mind walking in to a serene bar like at Louth and quietly surveying the placid locals while you select an option of acceptance, and/or, I might add, being humiliated, this baby was a madhouse, a lion's den, a snarling fight for survival. That observation is merely looking through a window; getting past the front door was much tougher. I hoped none of the patrons from Louth were here and they called out something very damaging to my person. _Hey boys, see this bloke? Yeah, drinks orange juice, likes getting knock-backs too. Har Har._

There were thirty-seven cultures represented and they were pretty much an ugly, motley bunch. They were four shades of black, several eastern European accents, and Orientals with a mixture of eye shapes. Am I allowed to say all that? May as well keep going now that I've made a start. There were miners, bore-sinkers, Afghan camel men, Chinese market gardeners, Portuguese cork growers, inland explorers, Koori jackaroos and Kiwi shearers.

No suits here; this was grimy overalls, turbans, niqabs, hijabs, black oily hair in ponytails, thick beards, Jacky Howe's, jeans and riding boots. They had bodies' full of tattoos, said really big swear words and they all smoked. The blokes, they were tall and wiry, big-bellied and they were five foot six-across the shoulders, and in this last category they were so muscly their arms rested at forty-five degrees. They all spoke in strange tongues, accents, and grunts and although I grew up amongst a similar style of communication in West Dubbo, I could not understand this dialect. The bar was an outlet, not for an angry outpouring from the oppressed, but for a celebration of individual freedom; the wild ride of a mob within a larger mob. To be accepted, you had to arm wrestle strangers, eat raw meat and knock back shots followed by a schooner of beer, all three completed at roughly the same time. I wanted to be like them because they had something I longed for: an acceptance for who you really were, that you were rough and brave and it made you feel good inside. But I couldn't do it. For starters you had to earn your stripes over time, which wasn't going to happen; in an arm wrestle I'd not stand a chance as most of the biceps were as big as my thighs, these blokes didn't muster sheep through the gate, they threw them over the fence; they smoked dynamite cigars and never slept.

Downing shots followed by a beer chaser was never my cup of tea either, even when I was drinking. No, my contribution to this lunatic asylum of life was a kiss from the barmaid followed by the lemon squash, ice and a straw thank you. I know how to fit in.

This pub was no place for the squeamish. I learnt several new terms of endearment about mothers, little sisters, blackfellas and Asians, before I had even touched my first drink.

Each person had something of his or her own, an acceptance within themselves and the group in the bar at Wilcannia that was not just a small piece of the entire planet; it was a vital piece of the planet.

Two blokes sat across the bar. One blew me a kiss and rubbed his cheek. This was no Bourke invitation, and I waved Thank you very much and continued dreaming about this gorgeous girl zipping around behind the bar. One bloke had more mouth, and had his eyes on me. He also ogled Rosie as she delivered their drinks. 'Do we get a little kiss too?' When Rosie didn't acknowledge his scintillating wit, he moved up a notch. He was crude and Rosie ignored him. He looked across to me, waiting for a reaction.

'Hey you, boyfriend. She a wog or what?'

And this is where it all changed from pub banter to insult. He didn't know Rosie, so therefore he couldn't call her wog. Didn't he know racism has rules?

'Hey you with the limited vocabulary, the wog is with me, so relax.' My Rose was indeed swarthy and she had a hooked nose that could have come from the Mediterranean, or Arabia, but for him to call her a wog was not cricket.

The mouth ignored my terrifying and threatening reply, and when he put his hand on Rosie's, and said, mockingly, _Hi my sweet river man, what you doin' later,_ she jerked her hand away quickly, and spilled his change onto the floor. He said, 'Pick it up!'

Rosie tossed some leftover beer into his face. He shook his head dry and everyone in a five mile radius got drenched. He smiled, a straight-look-in-your-eye smile, and all those around him laughed.

I called across the bar, 'Hoy mate, told you, that's my girl, settle down or you'll answer to me.' And I gave him my best evil stare. Tell me I didn't say that. I realise that I have the unique ability to be stupid as well as delusional. It's not come easy, I've worked on it for years. My heart found a rubber hammer and was trying to get out from inside my ribcage. He of the beer shampoo kept on grinning. If a roadtrain hit him, he would still grin and the roadtrain would come out with more dents.

'Hoy shorty, you're a puppet with a smile painted on. And your mate is your voice.'

So I'm initiating insults now, is that it? Cross-bar insults kept flowing, and I hoped that's where it would stay, just like two bucks that roar, but don't actually fight.

The hotel was an ashtray, its bar played pool, its walls soaked in the swearing and jostling like a painter slapping on an enamel undercoat. It was too rough for me; I just wanted to go home and cuddle my sweet girl. Rosie came over. 'Those two blokes, I heard one say he's going to get you.'

'Ha, let him try. I'm not scared.' How about terrified. My two school fights came with a perfect record; two losses. I had no idea how to defend myself, let alone attack. I was taller than these two put together, sure, and my arms were tight from knocking about the river for a few hundred miles, but I couldn't see this bloke adhering to the polite rules of the ring, and besides, I had no boxing skills and didn't like pain, particularly when it was mine. And if it came to close quarter stuff, I would be crushed and broken like a little grey bamboo stick and cloth kangaroo underneath a V8 truck. I wondered how long it would take for me to have big muscles like those two - I'm only guessing here, but I'd say not enough time.

When they pushed their empty glasses away, stood up and headed my way, I thought now would be a reasonable time to pray.

_Dear Big Fellow, I have some requests this evening. Can you please ask the Murray River people to forgive me because I'm really sorry about what I said about their river, and there's a bloke coming over who thinks he would like to pull my arms off. Reckon you could lend me a hand, and by the way; don't be too long?_

Is that what praying is all about? Always asking for help or stuff that you need, never just phoning up to say, _Hi there God, how are you today?_ You know, just to pass the time? Maybe I should pray for this bloke, just to give him a chance; his last one before I take him apart? I would, but you can't ask for others because they've got to do their own asking. We have to take responsibility for our own actions. I read that somewhere. Everything you read is true.

I made a list, just a mental one because I didn't really have time to use pencil and paper, like when the blue boar was on his way, of what could happen to remove the electrical charge, not to mention fear of death, that was currently doing the rounds of my stomach. The list had two dot points: first, if I lived through this, I would undertake some serious retraining in voice control management and the second, God would click his fingers and the bloke would vanish. It must have been a bad line because the second didn't happen. As they lumbered closer, I said, 'Boys, your best hope about now, is that you make it to old age and die in your sleep. Otherwise you'll be begging for death and seeing your ancestors sooner than you'd like to. And...,' I looked straight at the loudmouthed one, 'you also need to know that in West Dubbo I was known as Tony the Horrible. So think carefully about what you're doing.'

This may not end well.

'You, you talk too much. And you don't even drink _beer_.'

Getting personal now are we.

'Keeps me from being associated with riff-raff like you.'

I took a couple of very deep breaths and for some strange reason, my hammering heart ceased its fury. Think it may have stopped altogether; that or done a runner out through the door. I felt clear and even a bit focussed, not sure why. If you're not a footballer, look like one. When the end is coming maybe you go beyond fear and into acceptance of death. Maybe I'll wee myself shortly like Herbie the goat did. The bar went quiet, stopped its game of pool and turned to watch circus boxing, sweat, and blood on the sawdust floor. The mouth curled his fingers into claws, then slowly into tight fists, his face scrunched in fury. 'And we saw you over at the Court House Hotel, you, with your arm over that other bloke's shoulder.' Oh shades of Dubbo. That was it for him, seeing me touching another bloke and not drinking beer; top-of-the-order blokey sins. May as well live in a monastery.

Being taller, I stood up and stared him down. 'Maybe you would like to kiss my cheeks?' Then as he screwed his face, leant forward about to launch and kill me, I confused him with the words I had practised behind locked doors. 'Your perspicacity, though largely incorrect, at this point in time anyway, is the by-product of your own insecurities. Now get out of my way or I'll breathe on you.'

' _What_ did you just say?

'I said; you are a bully,' and at that he threw a punch. But I saw it coming because I can read telegrams. I moved to the side and replied with a flurry of punches, any one of which would have flattened a bull elephant - if they had connected. 'Keep still!' I was teary and angry and screaming, 'Don't you ever insult Rosie or anyone ever again you little weasel!' Still they missed. The crowd was clapping and roaring, and I had no idea what I was doing. I swung, I bobbed and I weaved; and all the while he waited for an opening. As I was ducking and weaving and haymaking and crying; I slipped and bumped my head on the bar.
30

How would you know if you're dead? If there is no afterlife with angels and harps, then surely it's all just like sleeping and you wouldn't really know if you were dead or just asleep, except for the lack of dreams; maybe. This time, I am very pleased to say, I woke up. But first only my ears woke up. It is the weirdest thing to hear people talking about you as if they think you can't hear.

'Apparently he has no idea how to fight...swears a lot too, and his undies needed replacing badly.'

My eyes fluttered like a poker machine's reels.

'Look, he's awake.'

Come in students...we wish to share our latest exhibit fresh from the sawdust floor of life, where we will dissect his broken body that has been donated to the medical lab, because the organ recipients wouldn't accept his little soft bits.

'Where am I?'

A nurse said, 'You're in for observation.'

'Do you reckon I'll get to see all twenty-four of Australia's raptors?'

My left eyebrow felt tight, and when I touched it, I felt a row of spikey fishing line. I can cross that off my shopping list. Must let dad know. She patted my hand, ' _There there, It's alright,_ ' like your mother would say when you were a little kid and had taken some bark off your knee. 'You have visitors.'

Rosie came in with the second bloke, who sometime ago was on his way to help his mate remodel my head. Rosie leaned down and gave me a soft hug, and above the reek of cigarette smoke, beer, crude comments and historical sweat, I could smell the warm sweetness of her body. And Rosie's mixture of scents also meant that I hadn't been here long. My lemon squash wouldn't even be flat, nor the ice melted. Waiting for me at the bar I expect. Like I was going back there. The big bloke said, 'My brother, he is sometimes crazy.'

'Really? Hadn't noticed. What about you then? If you come too close just keep in mind you have recently seen how vicious I am; and I'll tell you right now, I don't mind going to jail again.'

My fearsome threat had obviously gave him some concern. He said, 'I am sorry.' I was certainly surprised. What do I say to that? Nothing that's what. He left, and Rosie held my hand.

'I quit at the hotel. I'm heading back to Melbourne.'

'Right.'

'That second bloke, he only went over to drag his brother away.'

'Ha, like I needed help, I had him covered. Lucky for him he was dragged away.'

'He told me he loved him.'

I wasn't in the mood for such talk. 'When you going?'

'Couple of days maybe. Know any good motels?'

Rosie, now snugged into me and kissed my left eye, 'Hey, thanks for that back there.'

'Not sure you needed it, but sure anytime. I like pain and fear. Besides, being carried out has more style than crawling out.'

'You're all class Pritch.'

Then came the time for the untalked about stuff to be talked about. Rosie was getting the bus out the next day.

Rosie said, 'I know you have things to do, and I know you must take your time doing these things. Me too, with the things to do bit, sort of, but please oh please, come back to me.' And she passed over a bit of paper with her Melbourne address. 'I live with my cousin Margaret; long story, don't ask.'

'Why do you live with your cousin Margaret?'

Parting from Rosie this time was a slightly different version than the Louth celebration of security and inner confidence. It was okay, but a different level of security type of okay. It was deeper, yet had a little of that scaredness of the unknown because of time and distance. It was going to be a long time between drinks and it felt odd; a lonely sort of odd. A not quite right feeling that we should be going apart. But at least this time we knew a place, if not a time, where we would be together.

I loved Rosie for a million reasons, and I told her all of them. Took a while, but when I did, it gave me a feeling of giving I had never had before. A giving of keeping and belonging. Rosie and I had changed from the early flirting into beginnings of something else that had security, and it also had the freedom of each as a separate person but also as a couple. This is what I didn't know much about. And even though I now had Rosie's address (soon after copied twelve times and hidden in separate places in the boat alongside the chocolates) and wasn't at all sure when I'd get to Melbourne, I kept getting weird feelings that came up through me in a sort of vertical warmth. I felt at home, I felt safe and I felt special to someone. And the Gods were sending down rays of yellow light to clothe us in; to wrap us in a soft sheet made in a land of little butterflies, pretty flowers and cuddly birds. Best of all in Wilcannia, when I had told Rosie that she was special, and that I loved her, she told me that she had these same feelings.

These were feelings of a stronger kind of love, something I had previously thought a tad constricting, and not really for me, but now I had myself another question; and it was about settling down.

Why hadn't my footy mate explained properly what this being close with someone was like? Inconsiderate of him not to share this knowledge. He also probably recommended that Frankl's book to explain love and the meaning of life because he couldn't explain it himself.
31

Most days I sat and stared. Not particularly at something, it was just a stare that took in everything; the scenery, the majority of the known world and even sections of the universe. Had excellent eyesight in those days. The tinnie was strong and I felt safe sitting there looking around and not worrying if I banged into a log. On this day that I had the stares, the sun was shining and birds landed on my shoulder, nibbled my ears and told me other peoples' secrets. I was drifting and I was in one of those moods that made me a part of the environment. This is a very nice state of mind to have. Nothing can go wrong; it's all good. Except in an instant, it all changed.

It changed from out of nowhere, where a lot of things come from and there must be one hell of a storage shed back there with an excellent filing system. A black cable was stretched across the river, and it was coming to meet me really fast and it was only two feet above the waterline, which meant it would either slice me into two ragged pieces, knock me out of the boat and tangle me and I would drown, or I could do some slick evasive moves. I dropped the paddle, making such a racket every bird in western New South Wales flew over to Perth where those hotel patrons from Louth live, hopefully, and leant backwards so that I was horizontal and the wire went across my nose trimming my eyebrows. A warning sign would have been nice, like, _You may die presently because coming up is a shipping hazard, and guess what, here it is right now; so duck._

I always thought it must be bad to go to jail. Not just go as in to visit a black sheep but to actually be inside. The limits to freedom caused by something you have done would be awful. Though I guess you should have considered these well beforehand. As these thoughts crowded my head; I broke into a house.

Why would I do that? All my West Dubbo misdemeanours were lightweight, and when I'd been caught nicking fruit a couple of times, the consequences were mild. First time a bloke kicked my bum, second time a bloke threatened to tell my parents, (different bloke, different fruit); this being far more frightening than the first. This B & E was way above lifting a few peaches. While I'm in jail maybe I could do a uni degree, just to show my Rose that I was intelligent.

I didn't mean to break in, as in break in to steal, I just wanted to have a look. Although deep down, I suspect the intention was the former and the reality of Dubbo the latter. Respecting the rights of others to have possession not one of my strong points. I stopped at an old homestead, and I mean old. I could see the memories; I could see happiness as well as sadness. I knocked on a side door, which was facing the river, and asked Hello was anyone home. No answer was the reply, so I tried to open the door but it was locked. I wandered around the back and found that the overgrown lawn was crawling with brown snakes, the garden crowded with peppercorn trees, and the shed screeching with vampires. Except I couldn't hear their noises, because the pitch is outside my range; I'm more suited to Tuvan throat singing. I forced a window and broke in.

It was the spookiest feeling I've ever had. Tiptoeing down where I shouldn't be, brushing cobwebs, wading though dust, and being so wired that if someone had tapped me on the shoulder I would have lost control of my bowels. I stared at old paintings hanging along that hallway, beautiful landscapes, vistas of a different lusher country, and portraits of blokes wearing formal clothes and formal faces. Be really nice to see Davo up there, or the Brewarrina jackaroo. This was a museum of colonial Australia. You paid your entrance fee, you took a clipboard and biro to tick your preconceptions, prejudices and prepositions, and the gift shop was lurking in the bushes as you headed for the exit.

Old fireplaces sent their chimneys up like a forest of brick trees that had their lower branches pruned to make them straighter for the sawmill. There were some boomerangs, flat on the wall, and a couple of grinding bowls on a silky oak chest. A collection from an ancient mob who had something we only think we can understand. This was amazing, this was history in a hallway, and my mouth was silently saying, Wow.

I came to an open door and turned in, and what I saw made me freeze in fear. Prickles of ice formed on my beard, like you get if you sleep outdoors on the deck of a steam-powered raft in Wilcannia in the wintertime. My whole body went numb. There was a table, an old English Oak table, chunky and heavy yet with a woodworker's finesse, and I noticed a mouse carved into one of its legs. This random thought, in the face of impending doom was sort of like thinking about James Rose's possible bruised shoulder when he fired his elephant gun. This table was set, and on a chair, a tall-backed magnificent carved number; a bloke was sitting. He turned and looked up at me.

What would you have done? Come on, be honest here. Made you a pot of tea back there at Shangri-La, so you owe me. Write and let me know. This is your competition fix for the week. Entries close in a thousand years, so take your time to write proper because the prize is worth it. The winner gets to go to jail to see what it might have been like because you did such a stupid thing. He said, I swear this is what he said, 'Care to join me?'

I couldn't speak. My heart was booming like a bass drum. He then returned to his meal! _Like, this happens to you every day?_ How casual was that? Someone breaks in and he turns his back?

He grinned and said, _'_ You should have seen your face.' I didn't think I wanted to do that. My bottom jaw was still letting in plenty of air.

'Hey, relax, I knew you were out there on the river for starters, not to mention the racket you made breaking in, as well __ as __ thumping down the hallway. Why didn't you come through the front door? It was open you know.'

I decided that when I got back to the tent, I would climb under the blankets for a while.
32

When you are on the river, one has to be honest for a whole batch of reasons. Firstly there's the police element, you really don't want to get a criminal record or go to jail. Then there's the personal honesty code thing, I mean, if you're dishonest, don't go near my river anyway. Thirdly, you are on a narrow highway, and unless you do some hare-brained idiotic thing, like shoot someone's pigs; get classified as being in love with someone of your same gender, or break into a house, God forbid, well word would be passed very quickly down that highway, and while the locals probably wouldn't set the dogs onto you, the generosity would dry up like a western river in drought. No-one has yet quizzed me about O'Readon's pigs, the Louth Hotel incident has never been brought up, not in my company anyway, and the bloke did not tell anyone down river that I broke in to his house. For a few nights after that afternoon, I got down on my knees and I said thank you to the man for not dobbing on me. And no, I cannot disclose how I did indeed break in because there would be a surfeit of crimes it's so easy. Besides, I may need this highly classified information if I fall on hard times.

The night after the house-breaking-in fright, when I was cooking tea, was a dark dark night; and even though there were no clouds, the stars couldn't breach the deep black of the inkwell. That black up there isn't just emptiness, it is actually thick stuff that holds the stars in place and it can touch your heart with its vastness. On a still night on the Darling, silence is redefined. To indicate that this silence is the absence of noise doesn't cut it; silence has a presence and it is a powerful one. It is heavy; not in a scary or sad way, it just is.

As I mixed a damper, I heard leaves crackling. It was a very quiet crackling, rather stealthful I thought, and I always listen to stuff around camp, particularly since that hostile kangaroo tried to kill me back near Brewarrina, and with this noise, I stopped mixing. It sounded a little snake but more rhinoceros. And I looked hard, but with that ridiculous orange light that emanates from a kerosene lantern I could see nothing but more black ink that someone had leaked over the trees and the ground. I requested that the noisee leave now, and reached for something to kill it with; but realised I had nothing. Not even a lump of firewood because I had let the fire die down to use the coals, and I wasn't going out _there_ to get more wood either as a waddy, or to make flames to scare away the animal thing.

Most wild things are scared of flames and I say most because black kites like fires. They swoop on little mouse things fleeing the grass fire, which they, the black kites, have started. I've seen these kites flying around with a box of matches. My polite request was answered by a really low rumbling grunt, a sort of deep growl, and I felt a little tremor of panic wobble around my stomach then make it go all tight. Why does it start there, this fear thing? Why not in your foot for example. If that was a boar, - and it surely was unless I had taken another wrong turn and was on the Serengeti - and he decided to charge, I would end up in small pieces and bleed to death. So I did the only honourable thing left to me. No, I didn't attack; you think I'm totally stupid? I didn't scramble for sticks for the fire, and I left the rifle where it was, because the rules of firing a rifle state: you must know where __ the bullet is going, and you must know exactly what you're really trying to kill. No, what I did was crawl backwards into the tent and tie the opening. I shivered in fear as the monstrous animal walked around the tent. That thin layer of canvas was tremendously reassuring, particularly as I could hear this thing breathe. Think it must have had some sort of bronchial problem; either that or he was practising for a role in a new movie about some people and crazy aliens having a war amongst the stars.

Of course there was no wild pig out there. It was the conscience I thought I used to have and a reminder that I could choose between my light and the dark and that either can be woken, fed and nourished. It's a choice - who gets the attention, as in a nestful of baby birds, and therefore which one becomes stronger. If you do wrong things more often, even simple wrong stuff, such as cheating, stealing or breaking into a house, these type of things become more easily accessed as subconscious day to day decisions. It does get easier to move downwards on a ladder of wrongness. But the rungs must be getting worn because now when I do something that's not the right thing to do, even if it's done unintentionally but ends up being the wrong thing, it causes me so much pain it physically hurts. And worse still, when this action hurts others, I feel more awful, and that I am not worthy. So the lesson here is: if you do do the wrong thing by mistake, and you're feeling all sorry about it, then run away and hide.

I had met a man in Wilcannia, a pensioner. He was employed here and there for farm jobs such as fencing and rousing in shearing sheds, and he told me that he always declares his paid-in-cash wages to the government department that pays his pension, and that sometimes his pension is reduced or stopped. 'The others, they laugh at me a bit because they cheat and seem to get away with it, but I don't want to do that. I need to know that when I'm alone, I feel good that I've done my best to do the right thing in my life.' Now there is a philosophy to live by. How simple yet how profound.

Next morning, because I was still alive, although a little shaky, I brewed an industrial strength coffee, no sugar or milk. Apart from that being one of the Commandments, (I've been to Sinai and seen them tablet things, and Number Eleven clearly says _, Thou shalt not desecrate black coffee_ ), coffee that strong, that pervasive, will drag you out of the slime, the dregs of a sad life, and will infiltrate your system. It settles in and bypasses your brain and blood as it would other inferior encumbrances, and says to them, 'Excuse me, stand well to the side, I have a job to do' and then takes over your mind. Your hands wobble, your cells regenerate, and your eyes rotate, and the world is good. And its legal.

I glanced down at my metaphor's tracks in the sand. The size of the hoof prints reminded me of a forty-four gallon drum lid, and caught on a saltbush were some strands of blue hair. I didn't break in to take things; I just wanted to look, and I'm really sorry. And since pushing open that back unlocked door, I'll never do the wrong thing ever again.
33

I was in a little offshoot of the Darling that would lead me to Balaka Lake, and saw a white cord tied to a branch, just at water-level, and I knew that this was one end of a gill-net. These nets are highly illegal, hang low, and are a tremendous killing device - where's my fishing inspector Peter Angel when you need him. They are underwater spider webs, their silken threads woven in four-inch diamonds of death, loosely swaying in a mist of enticement, with a ten foot drop stretched across thirty metres, entrapping fish, tortoises, cormorants and bunyips. I considered cutting the cord and hauling it out, but let go of my nose-out-of-joint and saved it for another day, perhaps when visiting another old homestead. Just on a bit, there were more nets, fifteen in all, and I thought, come on guys, what are you doing? As I disregarded one of those nagging doubts one gets, and moved into the overwhelming sense of Save the Planet with an opened pocketknife, I saw a metal tag. It said, _Tony what the hell you think you're about to do? Like you've done nothing wrong?_ It also indicated that, _This net is registered to Bruce, professional fisherman and make sure you knock on front doors in future._

A bit further on I met Bruce, and his wife Blanch, bobbing up and down, as they set another gill net. Blanch told me that in the Bijijie Horseshoe, a flooded billabong coming up shortly, there could be a nesting colony of night herons. I got really excited, not only because that word Bijijie has got a lot of dots floating around but because here was a local saying that there might be a colony nearby. In the marshes, and on the Darling I saw single nests and even some small clusters, but I wanted hundreds of thousands of birds, the smell of white rubbish overtaking the air, a clanking, squawking, clattering colony of ibis or egrets. We talked about what we'd seen on the river, and about Menindee. Blanch also said there was a houseboat coming up river. I hoped it would see the Balmain Bullet coming the other way

Blanch said, 'Saw you back there. Just checking Bruce's name was spelled correctly were you? If you're going across Balaka Lake, there's a bloke Bill lives on the other side. Give him our regards, he's a nice fellow. Hey, good luck with finding a colony.'

Sitting in a flat-bottomed boat for almost a year and getting to know how it handles, meant that I should know better than to paddle across a lake; an open and at-any-time windy lake, but knowledge and application of same are not universal nor mutual, nor in any way connected to my daily choices. Even though I do not like lakes, I paddled across six different ones. As I paddled across Balaka Lake, to call on a bloke called Bill, and if all went well, I would meet him on a Monday and my heart would stand still, I did consider that if the wind picked up, I would get wet. A flat-bottomed boat with a fool paddling across a lake can equal disaster. But not this day; it was a dreamy sort of day.

When I'm on a lake I pick a landmark to keep me going straight because it is easy to go around in circles, or to fall over the edge of the horizon, or veer off into the next country. I could see a windmill near the distant shore of Balaka Lake and I aimed for it. The lake was flat and smooth like I was in a pond, and through the blue haze I could see the town of Tiberias. My kibbutz mate Thomas and I used to walk into Tiberias for felafels and cold beer. Just sit and talk rubbish; is there a nicer thing to do between mates? Today's Tiberias was near a perimeter of dead trees and in these dead trees was a belt of lignum. This is a leafless shrub that can grow up to six feet tall and it likes droughts and floods. I have seen it after it has been inundated, full of mud, or smashed with River Gum branches, and it still reshoots. That's how cockroaches will survive Armageddon; they'd all hide under a lignum bush. Clumps of it growing have been discovered on the moon. I climbed half a mile up the windmill. Heights have never concerned me, but ten foot blades that whirl around at about eighty miles an hour do. And you also have to watch the tail. It is a single blade that has a long bar to attach it to the blades. If the wind changes, the whole bloody contraption swivels around, usually extremely quickly, and whoops, there you go, knocked off the windmill tower never to be seen again. I had to dodge a 747, three pelicans and push some white clouds out of the way just to get a look from the windmill platform.

From the windmill I saw Bill's house and because lignum was growing in a thirty-yard impenetrable circle around this section of our lake called Balaka, if I wanted to meet Bill I would have to go over the top. I dived on the first bush and did a sort of scramble, like swimming without water. Luckily lignum has no spikes like bougainvillea. I made it across and Bill said, Sure, you can stay, grab your stuff. I then swam over the top back to my boat, and dragged and pushed it back through the penetrable lignum. When I arrived at the shore, around four days later, the boat was cluttered with sticks, six nesting white ibis and I was drenched. Bill said, 'I see you missed the passage through the lignum.'
34

From Bill's place, I hitched a ride in to Menindee - my first visit. Menindee is a friendly town on orange sand, with two pubs, a general store and a post-office. Nearby are nineteen lakes. While natural, they have been modified for water storage and management for the lower Darling and as drinking water for Broken Hill. Menindee was the first town proclaimed on the Darling and Thomas Pain's shanty pub was built there in the early 1850s. A few years later, among its guests were some members from the Victorian Exploring Expedition, usually known as the Burke and Wills Expedition.

These explorers were attempting to cross Australia from south to north and although some made it there, for most of them not all the way back, and they gave us a legend that has produced twelve books, seven movies, five paintings and a play. The expedition, led by Robert O'Hara Burke, had shaky organisation, and some members were arrogant, some were humble, and some were brave. Wandering about the centre of Australia in the summer would have you wanting to reach for a cold beer. Wasn't for some compassionate aboriginals at Cooper Creek, it would have been Australian desert seven; European explorers nil.

As I waited in the post office, a young lady came in and asked if her parcel had arrived, and Carol Eglinton, the postmistress, said, 'Yes, and here it is', and passed it over the counter. The young lady hugged the parcel with such contentment that it affected all of us who were present.

'It's my new dress,' she said. Even though she directed this to the postmistress, we all felt included, because she did smile and look around the room, however briefly. Acknowledgement of others can also be a recognition of self-worth.

Carol then walked through the lift-up barrier and oohed and aahed as the young lady now held the dress up to her front with one hand, and pressed her other palm into the new dress against her waist. Carol said, 'It's such a pretty dress and you do look beautiful.' We all agreed. The navy-coloured, soft-flowing, formal yet casual dress was indeed pretty and I thought she would look stunning with it on. She was of an age where we could comment on her forthcoming-dressed beauty - our age not important this time, everyone had clothes on and her mother was not present. And may it be said, she was beautiful without that dress on.

A man then entered the post office,and felt what was transpiring, because humility had a sign in the air saying, This is a moment where the natural excitement of life, the love, the sharing and all things beautiful are present. He __ lowered his head a little and touched his hat rim with his index finger and thumb together. There is respect right there. Try that at home and see how it feels. It's pretty much out of date now, this hat touching thing, but how nice to see it done in a country post office. I must be getting old.

Amongst my collected letters was a package from the Balmain Bullet people. Back in Wilcannia, certain members of the crew and I had something in common, apart from knocking down a telephone line and/or shooting pigs that belonged to the same man; we were addicted to chocolate. This package, full of chocolate, was indeed a nice gesture, and I worked out a way to thank them. I wrote to the Wentworth Post Office, introduced myself and asked, _Could you please hang onto my mail for the next three months? And, would it please also be possible, with the one dollar note that is enclosed, when the Balmain Bullet was getting close, to purchase a chocolate cake ready for them to collect?_

It did occur to me that maybe I was asking a bit too much. I mean, hanging on to your mail until you call in was okay; it was work related and so far all post offices had been incredible. But to ask complete strangers at a country post office for a personal favour? I had to wait for three months to find out what happened, and it reinforced my belief that as long as there is a Darling River, the world is in safe hands.

Also, noted by its absence was a letter from Melbourne. So I wrote one.

_Hey, thinking of you, no wait, thinking of us. I'm missing you but I feel good deep down there somewhere; I mean inside where our love lives. I can now swim on the top of lignum bushes and climb amongst the clouds, adding more accomplishments to my list of valuable bush skills. Bet you couldn't do those things. And you are probably thinking, why would I want to? Fair enough; how's Melbourne? Bet you miss me too. Yes Tony, I do. Hey be careful saying those last two words. You going to get off your skinny backside and write or what._

I stayed the night in Maiden's Hotel (previously Paine's) in Robert O'Hara Burke's room. I know it was his room because there were curly beard hairs on the pillowslip. The Sunday meal was silver service; brown-skinned chicken, roast potatoes and pumpkin with dark gravy, followed by hot custard and pudding, then followed even closer by a long snooze. Sleep is listed on the menu just after Desserts.

At Maiden's I met Tom and Dot Guscott, the people Blanch had told me about, who were coming upriver from Berri in South Australia in a houseboat that Tom had built. They had left their houseboat at Pooncarie, and were checking out the main weir to see if they would be able to go any further up the river. When they did get to Menindee, and no further, I think theirs was the first houseboat to come up the river for thirty years and the Balmain Bullet first paddlesteamer to go down river (from Bourke) in thirty years.

I decided that when I came through Menindee in the boat, I would go down the Anabranch, the original Darling River, which branched off west of the Darling about thirty miles below Menindee. That seemed like an exciting thing to do, and I'd see different country. And when I did do this, I travelled to the turnoff with Tom and Dot.
35

Coming back into the river after Balaka Lake I found an island and made camp. I walked around the drowned edges of a billabong called the Bijijie Horseshoe, knee-deep in mud, crayfish and hopes, guessing where the inlet creek that would take me into Bijijie Lake was.

Around this Horseshoe, I found a colony, but not water birds; it was a Parliament of Boobook Owls. It seemed like there were hundreds of them; but I only heard them. These nocturnal birds begin mumbling just on dark and they start all sleepy with a one-note call, a sort of croaky half-version of their usual two-note mo-poke, which everyone the other side of the Harbour Bridge thinks is the tawny frogmouth, but they, the tawny frogmouths, make a type of meditational chant sound, a soft Ooom that filters through the consciousness of the bush. Peace and Love to you all.

There were small islands scattered about and I stayed there for three days. One late afternoon, I saw a feral cat eating a pelican. I suggested to the cat that he sign up for a funeral plan reasonably quickly, and as he streaked away I had one shot; and I missed. Blew my perfect record right there. Took a chip of bark off a gum tree above the cat's head, like you see in the movies when the cops shoot bullets which only seem to blast bits off walls and things.

'Hi, good thanks, can I please cancel that plan? Yeah he missed; lousy shot. Still got my original nine. I'll stay with them until he learns to shoot straight I reckon.'

Parrots were starting to claim nesting hollows and I decided that galahs were my new favourite bird. The way the little soft feathers come up and cover their lower beak when they are preening each other makes me immediately fall in love with whoever is next to me. Although running your fingers through a stranger's hair while making soft nestling sounds tends to throw them off balance. Galahs sit really close and one will lower its head and the other will lean over and nibble the other's head. They chat as this is going on. I've heard them. The one being preened will say, 'A little to the left, yes that's it; ahhh.'

The preener will then add, 'This is going to cost you. Your turn to cook tonight, _and_ do the dishes.'

I like my head being scratched so obviously I'm turning into a galah. I had noticed a preference for sunflower seeds lately, so it won't be long before my eyes turn black. I'll even do the dishes too. Galahs don't like being alone. They stay together, no divorces. You never see them bushwalking by themselves for instance, or in a single galah's bar. Galahs fly in flocks or in pairs, whereas some birds, like cormorants, even though they can nest in colonies, need their solitary contemplation time.

Emus, Black Swans and Prince Albert Lyrebirds often nest in the winter, ducks become all clucky if you turn the tap on anytime of year, but galahs, although a warm autumn will tempt them, are pretty much spring nesters. They will contest a hollow quite vigorously at times and usually one pair will give in and fly away, muttering, Just you people wait till next spring.

I saw two pairs of galahs fighting over a hollow and one bird definitely broke all the rules. All four fought tenaciously over a small hollow in a dead gum tree. They screeched and bit and did flying drop kicks and even dive bombs. It was torrid and relentless. The boys grabbed onto one another and tumbled over and over until just before slamming into the ground and smashing themselves to bits where they would break apart because they had been alerted by some unseen emergency signal.

Then one boy galah got trapped in the hollow and this is when then the non-gentleman thing happened. The other male, looked around at the crowd and grinned, rather slyly I thought, and slipped down the hole. I think he must have had a lump of wood concealed under his wing. Sounds of thumping came out the hollow, and the screeches of the bashed up galah became quieter and quieter, turning to little disyllabic whimperings, until the victor emerged clasping his hands above his crest, left and right, like a boxer with puffy eyes and ears like a run-over pumpkin.

When galahs go across the sky, they use a full winged loopy flight pattern, slow and methodical, using all of the up and down of their range. They also fly with jerky wings and short fast flutters accompanied by screeches, and when they do this, it is a giveaway that they are near their nesting hollow.

Corellas fly with quick stiff wings that seem only to bend at the elbow, if there is such a thing on a Corella's wing, and don't use their full reach from the armpit, so to speak, like say galahs or red-tailed black cockatoos. The corellas go around in circles and make a hellish raucous noise. I have heard this screeching and seen this wing-beat pattern at close range.

I was drifing and noticed an isolated gum tree shimmering in the sunlight. This light was one huge diaphanous snowflake; a glow of purity. As I gazed in bliss at this angelic and somewhat haloed scene, the mob of corellas that were the heavenly glow, erupted and dived at me, scaring me so much I almost wet myself. They swirled around me, making an horrendous racket, screeching and yelling bad swear words. Then they flew away around a corner to a pub called The Naughty Parrot to share jugs of home-brewed beer and to swap stories.

Since I had put that chip in a gum tree at Bijijie Lagoon, I had been missing cats that I would normally hit, so I decided to clean the rifle. This cleaning meant you pulled the rifle to pieces, cleaned it, and then reassembled it. I did this blindfolded because I had read army manuals and this is what you have to do just in case you're behind enemy lines and you're walking around blindfolded. I drew a little cloth through the barrel. The barrel has got grooves going all the way down and these make the bullet spin as it comes out because a spinning body will maintain its axis of rotation. I listened well in high school science; can't have been springtime. I unscrewed all the bits gently and placed them there on a blanket. I wiped and I oiled and put the rifle together, balanced it in one hand and on the sixth day, removed the blindfold and rested. I looked down the sights and discovered what had been causing me to miss my targets: they were set incorrectly. As I went to fold the blanket, I noticed a small piece of curved metal. No idea what it was and as avoidance has always worked, I tossed it in the box with the cleaning gear and pretended it wasn't really there. A bit later I had a shot at eighty yards; and hit the target. I now do everything with a blindfold on.
36

River gums love a good soak in the bath, but coming into Menindee on Lake Wetherell, which is the backup from the main dam wall, they've had too much water and are dead. As you drift underneath, the stretched-out branches of these inundated trees reach down trying to clutch your shirt and take you into their branchy world. I had been warned about this, and wore no shirt as I came through this forest. It did get cold for sure, but I wasn't lifted from my seat and encapsulated into a withered white world never to be seen again. The branches are all wrinkly like our fingers and hands were when we sat in the bath too long as kids.

As I followed the river proper, guided by those spread white arms, a raptor flew off a large nest on a horizontal branch. It was a huge bird, and it was different. Its plane, a little upswept, and wavering in its flight path, was a sort of a tilty up and down thing, more like a purposeful sway. This was a black-breasted buzzard, my first sighting ever. Frank T. Morris said this species is '... _unlike any other resident species of predatory bird_ ' and that refers to the bird's silhouette - the broad wings and short tail. The black-breasted buzzard, found only in Australia, is a mystery. It is sometimes listed as a kite; but I'm not so sure. Kites are loopy, indecisive and sort of skim across the takings of the bush, although they do take live game, they hover, and they scavenge. There is the brahminy kite, the whistling kite, that ubiquitous resident of the Darling River, the black-shouldered kite, the letterwing kite, who hunts at night (perhaps a second cousin to a nankeen night heron), or the elusive square-tailed kite, or my extra-special favourite, the black kite. I fell in love the first time I saw one. The twisty tail, that call - so sweet, it was a hint of trepidation mixed with power - and they are so beautiful with that eye make-up. However, kite family, man up, the black-breasted buzzard should not be yours.

In my younger days, I used Cayley's _What Bird is That_ which made some identifications difficult, but the book had two redeeming features. Firstly, although we identified many birds around Dubbo which we found out later were only to be found on Cape York Peninsula, the Galapagos or the tundra of northern Europe, it gave us fantastic inspiration, and this in itself was surely enough for the book to retire with a full pension, a gold travel card and one free interstate train trip per year. The second feature was that the scientific names were explained, and this improved upon our already superb Greek and Latin language skills, learned while at kindergarten, handy when birdwatching with an ornithomancer.

So for a cockatiel you would have, or did have, _leptolophus hollandicus,_ meaning _delicate crest from New Holland,_ with New Holland an early name for Australia. Nowadays the cockatiel is positively classified in the genus _nymphicus_. This nymphicus word has quite a few meanings, and I have chosen a beauty. Cockatiels are so beautiful they named them after mythical nymphs. A divine spirit, depicted as a beautiful young nubile maiden who loves to dance and sing, and one who has amorous freedom. And they never die of old age or illness. I am so coming back as one of them.

I like headings and lists but there are certain birds, unlike our cockatiels, that just don't seem to fit where they have been put. For example, the nankeen night heron, which has been renamed rufous heron, is not a heron. Herons do not come out at night, without torches, to hunt for crayfish and stuff. A nankeen night heron is either a nocturnal bittern, well have a look at the body shape and flying characteristics for starters, or, it's a butterfly. When they take off, all noisy and clucking like broody chooks, they are a cloud of brown butterflies.

During the day and just after dark on the river I would hear a one note sort of bellow, a soft booming sound. Even though it would start again before first light, it wasn't a true nocturnal call, and was ventriloqual. It was the sound a distant bullock might make. I didn't see much in the way of cattle, and even though cattle can swim okay, most of them find it difficult to climb. So it probably wasn't a member of the cattle family, or even a relation. I first thought bittern, and even though the broader geography was right, the lack of reeds and other marsh vegetation made this unlikely. I paddled in between branches, leaves and logs, and of course the call stopped. Birds do that. A bronzewing flapped out of the leaves; a common bronzewing; _advertising call a far-carrying, mournful, slow, resonant and deeply vibrating 'whooo'..._ -p158 Morcombe's Field Guide. This common bronzewing pigeon has the scientific name _phaps chalcoptera,_ which translates from the Greek as bronzewing pigeon, and this is fair enough. It's the common bit that worried me so much that I have decided to change it. Grab a pen and write the new name in. Not in a library book, just your own, or one you've borrowed from a friend. The common bronzewing pigeon that does the deep booming call is now called the booming bronzewing pigeon.
37

As I drifted in towards Menindee town, an old bloke was squatting next to a campfire. He called out, 'Hey you want a cup of tea?'

'Thank you, yes. It will give me a chance to use the paddle.'

This was Bob Campbell, age 66, from Broken Hill. He swung the billy around his head in an orbit Galileo would have considered for approval, _Robert, that's not bad, make her a bit more elliptical next time though._ I said, 'Bob, if that handle breaks we'll be looking for our tea in Western Australia.'

'It's worth the risk,' he said. 'It makes the tea leaves sink and therefore draws the tea.' He said you can also tap the side of the billy with a stick for the same result but the swinging thing looks more dramatic. Bob poured the tea into enamel mugs, and I discovered that enamel when heated, can retain its heat for approximately ten years after having something hot poured in it. I took mine with me and drank it over the next week; it was only a small mug.

As we pretend-sipped on our tea, and looked wistfully without focus, Bob said, 'It is better to attempt something great and fail, than to do nothing and succeed.'

There was no, Hey Tony, want to hear something interesting? Or, How's the little missus? This little gem was straight out of the blue, like we'd been friends for years and could say random things like that.

'Bob that's rather interesting. Where is it from?'

'Read it at the Methodist church in Menindee last week.' He continued, and I think it was a different story, not sure, 'There was this swaggie, back in the early sixties, up near Bourke, and his campfire got away. He was boiling a billy, and he panicked when the flames started sneaking into the dead gum leaves, and you know how hot and crackly they burn...'

I nodded a knowing nod, Hell yeah Bob, they burn real fast, and so damned hot. __ It was nice to be included in the understanding-of-bush-things-club like you're a permanent member. '...after the locals put out the fire and saved their fences, buildings and mothers-in-law...'

'That's impressive Bob, I like a good plural.'

'...they said to the swaggie, Why didn't you pour the billy of water on the fire when she first was getting away? He replied that that wouldn't work; because it was hot water.' He succeeded well.

Christmas 1975; fifty of us volunteers went from kibbutz Ginosar into Tiberias to the Methodist Church for a service, and we all sang hymns and Christmas carols. The priest says, Okay, girls only. Gorgeous singing, in-tune and done with great passion. Our turn; but the bloke next to me unfortunately didn't have a voice. When he opened his mouth dead people rolled in their graves, which is the opposite to how dogs can hear high-pitched sounds. If you did both at the same time, there'd be a barney. We were out of tune, out of sync and we forgot the words, even though they were written in the books in our laps. We gave it a shot but it was dreadful. The girls all sniggered. Wish that Methodist church in Tiberias had Bob's little quote up; may have made us feel better.

Just below Menindee, I stayed in the huts at the old Kinchega Station, now part of a National Park, and Head Ranger John Eveleigh showed me around the lakes. I also met with researchers who were counting kangaroos. I asked a PhD student how she counted moving kangaroos from a helicopter, which is also moving and wouldn't that mean the kangaroos looked like they are standing still. Like at a railway station when you're in a train and the one next to you moves and you think its your train, until you look away from the other train that is possibly moving, to the platform, and then it's all revealed. What if both trains started moving at the same time, now that would really play with your head. _Psychiatrists said it was the train thing that tipped him._

'Easy,' she said, 'You count the legs and tails and divide by three. Want to come up and help?'

I thanked her for the kind offer, and said, 'I would love to except that my psych's report hasn't come through yet.'

I saw one thousand five hundred pelicans swimming about on Lake Cawndilla, just talking among themselves about how the fish weren't biting. One tilted his bill upwards for a second, then started hopping across the water, with that heavy wing flapping that pelicans do, because they are not really birds, they are aeroplanes in disguise. The others followed and flew to an imaginary escalator, stopped flapping, and with outstretched wings, spiralled upwards on a thermal. Magnificent white-ish birds, totally silent, not touching wing tips, riding the thermal in three equal tiers. What is it that the pelicans see, or feel, or sense, that we can't? The wind? Can they see convection? After a few thousand feet of spinning in a reverse whirlwind, the leader Lancaster Bomber peeled off and the others followed, flying away to another galaxy.

You know how I said pelicans were not really birds, and I said they were aeroplanes, well, they also have another disguise; they are really grumpy old men. They have one call, it's a sort of grunt, a deep disparaging moan, with no intonation. This call can mean several things, for example, when they see you coming it's, _mmmmm-here- he-comes,-a-bloody-gain,_ or as they are flying over, _That-dude-is-on-our-beach,-again._ It's always a complaint, like nothing ever positive comes out. They never smile, it's always a grimace.

When I see pelicans coming up river there will be no sudden movements, even though the jettisons were flimsy and mostly wafted across to the bank. Black cormorants, however, were a different kettle of fish. But it wasn't their poo they dropped that could cause damage. These cormorants often gulped fish that were too big to swallow there and then. They would then keep the fish in their verticalled-throat and do a semi-regurgitate thing on tippy-toes trying to work the fish down. But when these birds were startled and had to fly away, some were unable to hang onto their throat-jammed fish. And so there would be fish-bombs going kersplash all round me. Black cormorants sometimes put pressure gauges in these little fish. Some days, you could be paddling along, just whistling and enjoying life and then _Boom._

One morning I saw six hundred black cormorants in lines all going south, their yellow beak section glowing almost white. They fly really close together in an upside-down V, with the base in direction of travel. And as I was dodging dropped fish, I saw three flying back.

'You left the iron on, didn't you? I told you to check it.'

'I did check, I swear I did. Stop nagging me will you?'

'Nagging? Nagging? If we can't catch up to the mob after we turn off the iron, and the toaster I suspect, you've heard nothing.'

The cormorant mob flys very close together, no two chevron gap here, in a sort of upside down V, with the base pointing in the direction of travel. If you had a P-plater, a Yes, I am legal but have no idea what I'm doing, in the lead and he (because girls don't hoon around ever - they're all learning how to identify birds), braked to avoid a kangaroo, and you ask why would there be a kangaroo up there, well you obviously haven't seen a big red hopping, then we would have the biggest rear-end crash of all time. Six hundred dented black cormorants, caused by a very large kangaroo and a driver who was driving way too fast for conditions.

Imagine the noise, and the smell, of six hundred black cormorants staying at a Youth Hostel. After making their little beds (with the sleeping-bag sheets they brought), __ they would all tuck themselves in. But there's always one, who upsets the others. _Hey Kevin, you pass wind or what? You mind? Trying to get to sleep here._ If our young Kevin hadn't eaten that morning, he would ask, _Hey who burped? Phwoar, you guys been eating fish or what?_ He just wanted to make blokey jokes, and fit in a bit, being so young and all. And one would reply, _Jeez Kevin, what do you reckon? Why, what have you been eating? Lettuce?_ And the others would all laugh and nudge one another with their wing elbows, and poor Kevin, well he would feel all teased. Nothing more mournful then seeing a sad cormorant, his little head tilted down to one side, in a lonely unwanted hurt. He would have then thought, _Just wait till I'm leading the V again. Then we'll see who's got the power._

If black cormorants flew at night you wouldn't see the stars. _What's the weather doing? Right; overcast tonight must be going to rain. Wait on, just saw a star._ That would be our two heading back to check the status of their appliances. Black cormorants, like people who watch them, are not only handsome but also brave and very resourceful. When a whistling kite is gliding around, he will see a white-necked heron, just there high up in a dead tree, so the kite will lazily come over and pretend dive-bomb the heron, who will make an angry groan and fly away. But not our cormorant. He will stay right there and snap a honking sound and the kite will swerve away. I reckon the cormorant has burped. The kite then says, _Did you have to do that? I was just messing around. So rude, pheuw._

When pelicans and cormorants take off from the water they run first, unlike a black duck, who flies vertical from the surface and does 0-100 mph in 0.2 seconds. I always thought the pelicans and cormorants ran sort of like we run but no, they use both feet at once, like a kangaroo, and the forward leg hop movement is in sync with the upward wing. Probably get a $10,000 grant to do a PhD on that one. Maybe marsupials evolved from water birds, or the other way round, not the reptile/bird connection. Extra cash right there, plus travel expenses.

I collected my letters and among them there was one with a Melbourne postmark.

_hey pritch, we are alone together as well as apart together and I don't know how to resolve this. That doesn't make much sense. Maybe we can never and no, that thought sounds horrid - see me in melbourne - you know where I live - yes we are the same - are we bound to not be together because we are so independent? pritchard you annoy the hell out of me because I know you love a river more than me - no, wait, it's the isolation you love and I don't know why because you are fantastic with people, seen you with people, and I heard you talk about that lady you met below Louth, (you do remember our motel room at Louth?) and you are so good to me. - wilcannia was an eye opener - hey how cool was that - maybe I should have said eye closer; sorry. That's where I really saw your excellent people skills. God I miss us it hurts so bad some days I can't think straight. But don't hurry to melbourne, I don't want you to hurry - you are coming to melbourne to see me because I will kill you if you don't - I have given my heart to you I know you will look after it. Tell me more about you. What are you looking for out there? Ask me what I'm looking for. Big surprises coming for you. Lots of cuddles to you river boy. See you soon. I will wait for you forever, Me._

_Hello melbourne girl, I don't need a capital because it's just a letter not a tome and I can't spare the ink anyway. When for Melbourne I don't know. But I will be there I will bang on the door of the address you gave me. I have written on my hand so I won't forget. No worries about it washing off. What are you studying? Why? Where are your parent people? Brothers, sisters, children...? Okay I'll ask; what were you looking for on the Darling? Besides me of course. What am I looking for? Me too I think. Let me know if you find me before I find me because then I can stop looking for me. But I found you and you're better than me. I don't know what I'm looking for; to catch a fish, to have an adventure, see australia... (remember the ink thing) disregard that it's all bs. I am lost and I don't know where I am, or where I belong. Basically I'm escaping me and I'm not sure why. Maybe because I keep avoiding stuff, not bringing out hurt, a sort of fear of probably where it would end up. Pass the hanky. Having four six-inch bolts holding me together doesn't help, or a knee that sounds like a rusty hinge (even before it's opened). Strewth I whinge a lot, whereas you never do. And hey you're fun to be with but please, leave the jokes for me, yours are dodgy. Eye closer wasn't bad though. I aint going back to, or near to another hotel ever, except if you're working there. I'm waffling, avoiding again. I love this old river and what I'm doing, but it's not the same without you. Can you come back? I love you Rosie, God I love you, Your obedient servant in a blue singlet who eats his vegetables._

I was feeling a bit lonely for sure, but still good inside there somewhere with a security because I was accepted and certainly loved. Love was a settler; a way of belonging, of living; and I was liking this way of feeling very much. _Where are you parents? What were you looking for on the Darling?_ Such innocent questions. Each of us have a story and we each may also go through pain and uncertainty. And we can never really know another's pain even though we might have gone through something similar; we only think we know. And there's another thing; what if you were feeling sorry for yourself (you not me; I'm fine), but the other person had been through heaps more pain than you? Should you cheer up? Show compassion? Wallow deeper because you think your pain is better?
**Part 3: 1977**

The Great AnaBranch of the Darling River
38

_Dear Skinny, Where you going to live after you're done? So far you've mentioned twelve possible future homes along the Darling, not to mention that kibbutz. Could take me a while to get out to see you, particularly if it's the last one. It's getting on towards the football finals and a couple of your old mates are playing. Talking to one the other day, and he said to ask you if you'd met anyone. I said of course you'd met people, the Darling is full of people; fishermen, shearers, pig shooters.... Is he a kangaroo short this bloke? Enclosed a few newspapers,_

_Dad, your old man._

I left Menindee with Tom and Dot of the houseboat _Defiant_ , and we travelled together until the Anabranch turnoff. It was hard paddling at the same pace as a houseboat. We talked, shared stuff, laughed a lot, and more importantly, found an interesting competition. We had stopped at a station which had a cricket game (left bank vs right bank), a BBQ, a boil the billy competition and a damper cooking competition.

So happens I'm very competitive though you wouldn't pick it. Little old me, just drifting quietly, a quiet boy really. But bring on a game and it's to the death. I have no skill at cricket whatsoever, boiling a billy the same; but a cooking competition? Stand well to the side and don't talk to me. I wanted that blue ribbon for the Best Damper and I was going to get it. Dot swears this next bit happened but I think she got me confused with someone else. She reckons my damper was licked by a cat, a dog marked its territory on it, it fell out of the camp oven into dry cow poo, and after I dusted it off, won first prize. _The judges praised this wholesome damper. '_ A unique taste, _' they said, '_ fantastic use of locally sourced flavouring.'

Tom and Dot were such great company and from Tom I learnt a useful river skill. When we came into the bank one afternoon, Tom said, __ Tony, tie us up to that tree will you. I hopped out and passed the rope around the chosen box tree. As I hung onto this rope, Tom killed the motor and this sizeable houseboat suddenly became a sizeable heavy houseboat, and because the river was running full, it took off downstream. The houseboat pulled me into that tree, quite quickly. I made a splat noise, and slid down the trunk in slow motion. Tom mentioned that he hoped the tree wasn't damaged. He also said you have to pass the rope around the tree once, for secure holding; and for personal safety.

_Dear Dad the old man, today I said goodbye to the Darling River. I'm not finishing this river trip, just warming up really, but heading down the Great Anabranch. Just to see what I might see. Maybe I'll come back one day and drift from Menindee to Wentworth? Where will I be living? Don't know really. Melbourne probably, though down there, the river is apparently yukky which is a shame. Wouldn't want to drink dirty water. If you see my old footy mate please mention that yes Tony has met someone. One meets many people out here as you say; it's bloody crowded, but when you meet that someone special, it changes things. This lovely girl lives in Melbourne. When I tie up the tinnie, I pass the rope around the tree before I tie it off. Otherwise you could be dragged into the tree. And I mean, who would be that dopey? In life, one must tie one's tinnie up correctly._

_Talk soon,_

_The skinny one_

An anabranch is supposed to come out of a river and then go back in, whereas the Great Anabranch of the Darling River comes out of the Darling below Menindee, goes for two-hundred and ninety-eight miles and joins the Murray River without rejoining the Darling again. Apparently it's the original Darling, from thousands of years ago. I contacted quite a few experts on this, and have listed them in the Acknowledgement section at the back.

This intermittent waterway, the one that pretends to be an anabranch, is situated in a semi-arid environment, and has sixteen shallow lakes, some with massive lunettes, those giant elevated sand pits, on the north-eastern side. I paddled across half a dozen of these lakes, and walked around the remainder.

I have renamed The Great Anabranch of the Darling River; it is now known as The Orange Sand, Pine Tree, Black Box and Little Eagle River, Who Might Return as the Real Darling, Unlikely, But You Never Know. Should be easy to remember. Might have to use a small font on maps. As you look at a map it is clear that the anabranch is as wriggly as the current Darling. This anabranch had a different feel than the Darling. There were a few places which were Darling River, but mostly it was shallow and the banks weren't as high.

Just after midday on day one of my new adventure, it was getting darker. I climbed a tree to see if the world had really ended and saw that I was surrounded by a forest of thick lignum. The water disappeared under this eight-mile expanse just like the water in the reed beds of the northern Macquarie Marshes, and there was no obvious current. I was a little shocked; like, Hang on, you call this, the original Darling? It isn't a river, it's an overflow. I want my money back. __ So I backpadalled and made camp. Now what? I could go back down the Darling because running away from a problem was my default option. But if I would have done this, I guess the excitement build up that occurred over thirty years later wouldn't have been there, nor the three trips subsequent from Menindee to Wentworth on the real Darling River. I know what the inland explorers would have done, they would have hopped back on their horse, in the deep water and usual heatwave conditions, swung their sabres and yelled, Charge! I was a little more reserved and polite. I mean, if I would have had a horse, of course I would have galloped off and slashed things to bits.

Sometimes when you sleep on a problem and some of them can be quite lumpy, the next morning as you make coffee, just whistling away, you stop, stare ahead, and go, _Yes, of course that's what I'll do._

But there was no revelation that next morning. Maybe I could leave the boat and walk to a road and hitch into a town and phone Dad and say, 'Bit stuck here, may not get through.' And he again would say, 'Give it your best shot.' And then I'd walk on air again like I did before I went through the northern marshes. As I briefly delved into feeling like something deposited on a footpath, I smiled; I smiled because explorers didn't need to help me because there was no problem to solve there; I didn't need to run away; there must be enough gaps for me to get through. It's either amazing what things you can justify, or maybe I had changed my attitude from starting to get into panic mode into accepting and even changing my reaction to a situation? And I could solve problems myself. These thoughts really cheered me up. I was really learning to manage fear and uncertainty. This was brilliant. I concluded that it must be safe to have a bash even without a wet horse and a sword. And so on this next morning I set off.

I paddled into the maze, not really knowing what the day would bring, but with a happy heart and some assistance from two brush-hooks, a chainsaw and a D4 bulldozer. And I did get through.

This anabranch gave me three months of adventure before I reached the Murray River. It was a different looking watercourse, with no wild pigs, no getting lost, and only one mean person. I did tend to avoid thoughts about Rosie and there's not much in my diaries. I had to push these thoughts away otherwise I would have surely stopped and set off for Melbourne. I wondered, about a year later, how things may have turned out had I done that.

One of the first interesting things I saw on the anabranch after the lignum swamp, was a nonchalant dotterel.
39

Sometimes you see someone, and he is saying or doing something that is clearly a cover-up for something else. Perhaps it's someone sitting on a park bench reading a novel. Except they're not really reading because apart from the book being upside down, or the fact that they haven't turned the page for two hours (some would say possessing this level of knowledge is voyeuristic; I say it's merely being an observant people watcher), you can tell they are waiting for attention; someone to sit next to them, and say, _Hi, what're you reading?_ And then after they answer in the language of Sartre or Foucault, that no-one on the planet understands anyway, they say, _Hey, want to go for a coffee?_ like it's a brand spanking new thought.

I was sitting on the sand next to the anabranch, and I saw a black-fronted dotterel. Stacks of them all along the shores of the rivers; not all of them nonchalant like this one. This little black and white bird with a red beak and bobbing tail was walking along the sand, and was clearly reading a novel. As she walked - not an easy thing to do - she could have fallen down a manhole, tripped over one of those two-inch sticks sticking out of the sand or banged her head, and lost where she was up to. I drew a picture of the river, the curve of the sand, the sticks and stones, and drew little lines of where the dotterel walked. I'm just walking up and down and around, reading a very important book, nothing else. Oh no you're not, you have a nest and eggs there on the orange sand, and you are pretending that everything is okay in bird land, and that you walk around like this all the time. I looked at where all these lines crossed then went over to the nest and three eggs.

The anabranch was different; a little bit Darlingish but often not, and seemed like a new river system. The lignum area gave way to gum-lined banks when Redbank Creek came in on my right. In the black soil were black box trees-not coolibahs like along the Darling. The anabranch also presented some birds - new to me, not it. My favourite new bird was a pink cockatoo. Such a fine pink; so demur, delicate and soft. I saw mountain ducks fighting. These are large ducks, very colourful with a conspicuous orange, their real name being shelduck. Their call is a loud nasal 'anhk', and this indicates either that they have a peg on their nose, which would be awkward when feeding, or a serious sinus problem.

The black-winged stilt yaps like a puppy; like quite a lot of puppies. Yap yap yap, all-the-time, great swathes of them in the shallows.

Red-necked avocets, who are close friends with the stilts, sound like a cross between a flock of galahs and a skein of swans; that would be a honky squawk. Their beaks tilt upwards at the end bit.

Birds also talk to other species, and this talk often comes in the form of a death threat. For example; 'This is my branch so beat it.' Other words can be inserted for branch; like dead body, piece of fruit, missus etc. The miners who have a specific warning call when danger approaches, well their call is also understood by other species. White-plumed honeyeaters will lend a hand here and whistle in a different pitch.

Birds also move about to talk. They fly, wriggle, dive, dance, hop and jump; they may even flash their tails constantly. Think eastern swamphen, dusky moorhen or black-tailed native hen; flick flick flick. Birds dance and never mind the obvious lyrebirds or bowerbirds, I have seen galahs doing step-dance on a branch; they'll even go for the big three-sixty occasionally. Birds will preen, walk, or run in order to convey a message. Emus have the most beautiful legs, long and graceful enough to make long-distance runners envious. The males will strut in an effort to win the female but if he should make an incorrect step when he's doing the pride of emu; he is gone. The female will lose interest and often become aggressive.

Colour in the bird world is varied not only in difference or brightness but in aiding communication. When you see a boy rosella, he really cuts loose. He uses his vivid colours in all his communication tactics; gut in, chest out, and he wriggles that pretty tush.

When birds are nesting; they become alive. Previous to that, they are all dead. You may see them flying about, eating a few things, but it's not real; they are all apparitions. Come nesting time; that all changes. Apart from the breathing thing, they do weird stuff, like fight, brag, and be industrious. They get cranky, scratchy, possessive and loving all at the same time. A delight of craziness, love and nature. And when in that mood, our birds are more tolerant of us birdwatchers and will even tell you where their nest is.

Dotterels will not only look nonchalant, they will also sit on imaginary nests close to their real nest and eggs and tuck imaginary eggs under their breast. Galahs fly with short jerky wingbeats around their nest hollow. Tree creepers, as they hop up a dead tree, just prying here and there, will straight away look odd carrying an insect as they prod, because their grey-bark nest is just there in that fork, and in a seemingly part-of-the-feeding-movement, deposit the little fat juicy morsel into a mouth. Black swans silently glide, sort of whistling and looking all innocent, but then it all changes in an instant; they will actually stop, and look left, right and then left again, before proceeding across the road and through that gap in the reeds straight to their nest. All giveaways to a nest because these birds _look_ guilty. After flight EK 434 has landed, the birds are walking briskly along the corridor dragging their baggage towards customs; all except one.

'Right Barry, get a load of this one. See the sweat, the shifty eyes; goodness knows what he has stashed in those feathers. Let's go. _Excuse me sir, you have been randomly chosen for an inspection. Please come this way. How many passports you got? Two? Hmmm; please take all your feathers off.'_

Wedge-tailed eagles have captured the market of nest-telling; their product selling without making you feel inferior, without a sale that must end soon, and without semi-naked models holding an item not related to the aforesaid product, their upswept wings a tall V as they glide, just watching you like black kites do; except fifty miles higher, and they know that you know. When you see a wedge-tailed eagle, that dot which makes NASA re-route their spacecraft, who lets you know where he is, and therefore watch his majesty of flight, his orchestra in space, when you see this spectacle of anti-gravity, this extraordinary bird who allows you to lower yourself to the ground in silence, in total worship of a bird who commands respect, who _is_ the master, and, when you see an eagle up that high, you will be pleased. Probably because your eyesight is so good.

These eagles hurtle across the sky and as they get closer to where their nest is, they curve up and climb even higher, so high they need oxygen, so vertical they use a spirit-level, then stop, just for a brief moment before they hit yet another communications satellite, then turn their head down and dive, screaming with their wings folded back, and just before they hit the ground and make a terrible mess, they pull the joystick up, and with what must be extraordinary G forces that makes their eyes pop out, go up again; really high. Wouldn't want to get it wrong. _Anyone seen Wally? Nope, maybe he turned up a bit late? Saw him with a white cane the other day._ They do this three or four times, then flatten out, and land on their nest. _Hi kids it's me._ I'm sure it sends a message to others in bird world that, 'Excuse me, this is my space so nick off,' but to me, apart from feeling smug about my vision I see control of the universe, superb self-confidence and a high level of fear broadcast to any who watch. Can't imagine a zebra finch doing it.

'What on earth is daddy doing, mum?'

'Not much kids, just pretending he's bigger than he really is.'

Yet our same zebra finch will build a nest within an eagle's nest.

I built a hide out of sticks, the tent groundsheet and my two blankets. Sleeping bags are for beginners; for campers who aren't tough; us real men use blankets. The rough kiss of wool, accompanied by the soothing properties of stuck seeds, mud and shallow bravado. Some nights on the rivers were bitter and I froze in the now floorless and blanketless tent because I tried to be tough. Wish I had brought a down sleeping bag. When it was still night time, I would crawl out of the tent, my teeth chattering because some idiot had used the blankets for something else, and sneak into the hide; and wait for first light.

Then I watched both parent wedge-tailed eagles feed their large chick. They brought in rabbits - hundreds of rabbits; goannas and even a water-buffalo. Struggled a bit with that last one. Big beast, bellowing and swishing its horns about, trying to hook the eagle, but the eagle was too clever; it grabbed the buffalo in the middle of its back so it hung there, all bent down at both ends. Maybe it was the wedge-tailed eagles that helped finish off Australia's megafauna? _Here kids, brought you a Diprodoton for dinner. Doesn't seem to be as many as there used to be. That bloody ice-age. I tell you kids the climate is changing._

Eagles will attack in pairs using teamwork; one will circle lower and lower to confuse the doomed one, and then the other will come in from the side and strike. Then they feed their white-fluffed chick the furry and bloody remnants; the original take-away. I have seen eleven eagles hunting together. If you were a little animal, just scurrying about half-asleep doing little animal things and you just happened to look up, because your ancestral brain was screaming, and saw ten bloody great eagles circling, it would possibly wake you up.
40

'Can you bring the sheep in tomorrow morning while I get the shed ready?'

'Hell yes, Doug, no worries.'

I walked out having a major panic attack. I hate sheep; they smell, they're stupid, and now they would probably cause me an early death, because for me, bringing the sheep in was a euphemism for dying in the outback. You would fall off your motorbike, and while you were unconscious the crows would pick your eyes out. Seen them do it, heaps of times. After you woke up and said, _Where am I? Even though it is quite hot, it seems to be dark_ , things would get awkward. You'd be bumping your head on branches, wishful thinking and childhood memories, barking your shins on sleeping kangaroos, treading on bulldog ants, western taipans, and fossilised beer cans. Bringing the sheep in meant riding a motorbike twelve thousand miles out to the paddock, rounding up two million sheep, swimming them across the river and then circling them back into the pens, with no dogs to help. But Doug trusted me; and I did it.

I have no idea how I didn't come off the motorbike, drown, or lose myself, with or without the sheep, and end up in South Australia. And did Doug hug me, leave me a little note on the shopping-list pad, or say thanks? No, he did better; he did all three. When I had closed the gate on eight thousand baaing smelly idiotic piles of wool, walked inside and tossed my hat on the table (seen Doug do it so I thought that must be what you do when you're a sheep musterer) because I was totally exhausted, Doug looked up, and nodded; just a little nod that travelled around three quarters of an inch to the left off centre line, but it was a recognition that said, _Well done_. So all you bosses out there, you don't need to pay your workers, give smoko breaks or holidays; just give trust, and tilt your head. Not saying that Doug bludged while I was doing the heavy lifting; he was out repairing yards, stripping engines, and building windmills from bits of eight-gauge fencing wire.

Just before Meeting Doug, I had run out of coffee. To some, this may not be a big deal; if that is you, go ask a coffee drinker what this means, I cannot explain it. Doug shared his instant coffee, and this was a noble gesture and one I thanked him for. However, instant coffee tastes like dirt and hot water (I know this because I'm from West Dubbo), and when Doug loaned me some money for supplies, on top of the list was fifty packets of real coffee.

I met Doug at a little house next to a woolshed beside the Great AnaBranch of the Darling River, and stayed for a couple of weeks. Being around Doug made me feel good and that is a wonderful thing. The good people are worth hanging around. Doug was so strong, confident, polite, and had so much self-belief and beauty it had a glow that you could see in daylight hours. At night, you didn't need a torch, you just invited Doug around. He was similar in grace to Sheila Hole of Trilby; he was holy and defenceless, as in, he didn't need to justify himself to anyone. He was a reminder to me that when you help someone, whether that is a favour or a money thing, you do it for pure love, for peace and inner beauty, not for payback considerations. I was beginning to understand that this trip was giving me lessons on the way, but I couldn't fully grasp their relevance immediacy. The value of reflection is almost as powerful as being ready for something. Especially if you can apply this newly-obtained wisdom to the present.

We fixed gutters, fences, picked up a trailer from away out there somewhere. And those sheep we ferried across the anabranch in my boat? There was over two hundred of the suckers and if your math is better than mine, which is quite possible, you can work out how many trips at six a throw that was, and they were the biggest sheep I have ever seen. I cannot remember now how we wrestled them, tied their legs and then loaded them into the boat, the pain has seared my brain, but I do recall that at the end of it my hands were full of burrs that no amount of lanolin would help and my shoulders and back were screaming. Doug was tired too, and he said, Let's go to Broken Hill tomorrow. How perfect was that. I would get to see a new town and have a break from being The Man from the Snowy River, riding horses down slopes full of rabbit holes, and dodging echidnas and stumpy-tailed lizards.

The truth about the sheep work was that me and Doug, we mustered two thousand sheep from ten miles away. Truly we did that many and that far away. I understand that's not a lot of sheep or a great distance in sheep station terms, and you farmers will be making clearing of throat sounds, 'Yep, you amateurs. We mustered fifty thousand on pushbikes four thousand miles away; before breakfast.' And I believe you. But I'm a soft townie who doesn't like kangaroos being run over. I lied about most of the mustering heroics before too, but Doug certainly gave me trust by letting me do things and learn new stuff. There was no nagging, no criticism, he just let me stumble and bumble.

And I did the cooking. 'Learn any new skills on your river trip?'

'Hellyeah; I was a cook in a woolshed. Did some shearing too; you know, managed a station for a while. Over three-hundred thousand head; counted them using an abacus when they were in single file going over a bamboo bridge. Brought them in with a helicopter.'

Doug crutched; I roused. The crutching for me was easy, Doug did the bending over stuff; I just swept little bits of daggy wool into piles, sang bawdy songs and made sure he had enough sheep. However, when the time came to mark the lambs; it was pay up time. I had to lift the little people up, hang onto them upside down while Doug cut their tails off. Must remember to wear a long sleeved shirt next time. It was like someone had lashed my arms with little whips; maybe a pussy-o-nine-tails. I was awash with burr scratches, blood splatter, and lamb's tears. The glories of hard work are a beautiful thing. You ache, you hurt and you feel tight, but it feels darn good to be able to work hard. However, after a week of this I was totally stuffed. Damn hard work, I had had enough.

When you go to a new place with another person, to a country, a region, or a town seventy miles from the Darling River, apart from playing tourist and experiencing a different culture, there is always gambling involved. You must see someone you know before the person you're with does the same. And this person you know must not be a figure in the distance with you calling out, Hey, there goes Freddy Blogs I know him, no, you and the person must acknowledge one another up-close for verification for the prize. I discussed this bet with Doug, but he didn't say much; he just gave me a half a wry grin. What is wrong with this man? Did he have any idea who he was dealing with? Didn't he know I was the biggest winner of know-the-stranger-bets ever?

Broken Hill, the town of mines, was not discovered by a boundary rider tripping on a lump of what he thought was tin but by a kangaroo on his way to a shop. The kangaroo wanted to buy his favourite does a case of wine, so they would always choose him above the other bucks who vied for their favours and leaping to the bottle-shop the kangaroo unearthed a shiny rock. But because he was focussed on only one thing, and hopping in haste, missed one of the largest deposit of silver, lead and zinc ore on the planet.

In town, I bought another fifty packets of coffee, three rolls of colour film, two-hundred bullets and a bronzewing in a pine tree. And as I marvelled at the massive mullock heaps, looming in the background like a photo taken using a 400mm zoom lens, I saw Ted Marr from Mt Murchison station wandering about. I had stopped there, just above Wilcannia, for a week while shearing was on. Ted and I we talked a bit and when he went I looked around for Doug to make verification and therefore win the wager. But Doug had vanished. Probably saw me talking to Ted and nicked off. God, I'm good, I know that.

After a while searching I found him, and was Doug alone, having seen no-one he knew? Not quite; he was in a bar with not one known bet-winner, but seven. I was a beaten man. Doug gave me the other half of the wry smile, 'Boys, this young river fella is so rich he buys expensive coffee, and I do believe it's his shout.'
41

_Representing Robert Lawrie,_ the card said, and doors were opened. Everywhere I went, they sprung open, even letting the snow in a couple of times. London in 1974 was a time of Laurie Lee, Earl's Court and Irish bombs, and I had an offer of belonging I've never had before, or since.

I worked for Robert Lawrie; Alpine Equipment Specialist. Rob, his wife Ursula, had a mountaineering equipment shop in the centre of London at Marble Arch. Rob was a mountaineer, racing car driver, and collector of old books. I met adventurers, explorers and mountaineers; and almost found a home.

Downstairs at Rob Lawrie's, I had found a pair of Edmund Hilary's boots. They were about three metres long. You'd have to package them in separate shipping containers to get them to Nepal. Rob had made Hilary's mountaineering boots way before his Everest ascent in 1953, and one day Hilary came in to the shop. My word, he was a tall chap. I'm over six foot one and my eyes were staring at his kneecaps. Probably only took him four steps to get to the top of Everest. _Hey Tenzing, you coming or what?_ We talked a bit about his work in Nepal, and I thought craggy-Sir Edmund Hilary was a really friendly bloke, a special man, and craggy.

Noel Odell came in. He was about eight hundred years old and as well as being an extremely gentle soul, was the last bloke to see Mallory and Irvine in 1924. He told me Yes he saw human figures away up there, not far from the top of Everest. Did they make it? If you've nothing on next Sunday arvo, slip over and have a look for their cameras.

I met all of the 1953 Everest expedition and quite a few more from previous expeditions, including a man who was leader of the 1951 Everest Reconnaissance Expedition; Eric Shipton

Rob was a member of the Royal Geographic Society and it was his card, the one with my name on it that got me to some interesting mountaineering talks. With Rob's blessing, I trundled off to many lectures. I was to go to Eric Shipton's talk about the 1951 Everest Reconnaissance Expedition, and yeti footprints. Rob said, 'Make yourself known to Eric, and give him my regards.'

Eric Shipton; renowned along with Bill Tilman for planning small expeditions on the back of an envelope. They are very tiny people are Eric and Bill and they used little pencils. Eric travelled lightly, respected locals and inspired a generation of mountaineers. Several in fact. And so, after Eric Shipton had finished a fascinating and genuine talk about the way he and Tilman wandered around mountains, their jaunt through Nepal to check Everest out, (which included Edmund Hilary in the team) and the photo of the yeti footprint, I joined the twelve mile line to meet the famous explorer. Couple of days later I introduced myself. 'Thank you Eric that was amazing. Pritch from West Dubbo. I work at Rob Lawrie's and he sends greetings.' Loved his blue eyes; they said peaceful, they said depth and they said friendly. As Eric Shipton was surrounded by eight thousand admirers, several hundred camp-followers and two loyal Sherpas, I took my leave. As I was walking out the door, he called out, 'Hoi West Dubbo boy, hang on a bit. I'll be with you shortly.'

And after everyone had left, we talked for three hours. Himalayan adventures, travelling roughly, and the excitement of freedom when you travel; and I left thinking, what a gem, what a moment. And yes Eric, why not spend our lives doing this sort of thing. How do you explain to someone what it meant to meet Eric Shipton? By just saying, Hey, I met Eric Shipton? No, you say, _I met a true gentleman, a caring man, a beautiful man; a real adventurer. His name is Eric Shipton. And he changed my life by letting me believe in dreams._

Robert Lawrie was a mountaineer, a boot maker and a racing car driver. He was an amazing man from an era where a man's word meant something; without the tricks. He has a glacier named after him for goodness sake. How's that for appreciation. Not to mention the letter from the Norwegian Government that says, Thank you Rob Lawrie for supplying the boots for our blokes to ski cross-country and blow up Hitler's heavy water plant. His wife Ursula was a sweetheart. A former student of The Slade, she had the warmest heart I had ever come across. Her kindness and genuine love was so real it flowed through the room and entered into everyone's soul and made them pure and whole. True story. My observations aren't particularly innovative, original or even relevant to the world in general; just saying. To those who met Ursula; you know we have seen true beauty.

Rob and Ursula gave me special presents to top up my wage of twenty-five quid a week. Vital supplies like Brussel Sprouts, potatoes and Foster's beer; none of which was counted for taxation purposes or salary cap arrangements. I worked all week, including late-night Thursday trading and Saturday mornings. I stayed late other nights and repaired mountaineering boots and thought it fantastic; real leather boots. Must be in my genes. I was encapsulated in a world of mountains, adventure and honourable people. Stoicism, bravery, and honour; new concepts for a Dubbo boy; and I loved it.

Rob intimated that fairly soon I would be accompanying him on his annual road trip through Europe, where amongst other things, he purchased cow hides for the mountaineering boots, monoculars from Carl Zeiss and lager from Munich.

Rob and Ursula, who had no children and were in their seventies, asked me to stay back one day 'to discuss something'. This is like when the Principal asks you a similar question, and refers to you as Anthony, that's if your name was Tony, and you just know rubbish is going down. Or when your mother says, 'Anthony, can you come here for a minute?' You kidding me? Anyone I pass in the following ten minutes will need moisturiser for their windburn.

However I was wrong - first time ever. Rob and Ursula asked me if I would like to stay on, as in, live in London with the view of being one of the Team. Ursula said _, We will fly you home to discuss this with your dad. Stay a while; have a holiday in Dubbo._ Ursula, beautiful Ursula. This was serious stuff; this was acceptance and respect, offered with love. To learn about making leather boots, to meet more explorers, and detectives in deerstalkers. Not to mention be set in a well-established world-famous business. I thought about everything in my life so far, my insecurities, my dreams, (same things sometimes); a craving for a chance to belong, to be wanted, to be accepted, and to feel valued in such a genuine way that made me believe in myself, and here it was; offered so genuinely it hurt my dishonest brain.

And I turned them down.

It's now forty years later and I still wonder if I did the right thing. I left because I wanted to drift down the Darling. I loved it at that mountaineering shop, and it wrenched my heart to go. And I never saw them again.
42

On maps there are symbols, and amongst other things they represent windmills, churches and places to spot a red-tailed black cockatoo. Maps also have little squiggly things like blue rivers, contours, and various boundaries. But when you get to the actual physical place that is represented, sometimes there's nothing there.

In western New South Wales there is a border, but strangely enough, this one is not even marked on a map; yet. But when you are at that place, which is west of the Darling and a little ways below Menindee, this border is delineated by two species of feral animal; pigs to the north and rabbits to the south.

I have seen the rabbits, in a line, arms linked, teasing huge pigs who are on the northern side of their line. The rabbits poke their tongues out and often turn and do white-eyes. This cheekiness is not advisable because one day, a young boar, one who would be only about six foot tall and twenty foot long, is going to turn to his mother and say,

'Mummy, I say mummy, why do those little creatures taunt us?'

And she will say, 'Well little Boris (he is the weed, you should see his older siblings; frightening), I guess you're old enough for the big talk about the rabbits and pigs. The rabbits were here before us, and we came here as boat people from a troubled country.'

'Why was it troubled mummy? Was there a terrible war?

'Oh Boris, the troubles were much worse than a terrible war. The beer was warm, there was no spare water for bathing, and the sky was always grey.'

'Mummy, I say mummy, that must have been awful! How long before us were the rabbits here?'

'Oh goodness, not long at all. A mere 60,000 years. Or maybe more. And of course we exclude them from our rich cultural activities, such as getting drunk, fighting, and watching a game of football, all usually done at the same time and at the same venue. They must realise that we are as deserving to this country as they, and entitled to destroy the land how we see fit, and they should not discriminate against us. It will one day go to a referendum, with the Yes vote winning so that on the Constitution it will be as follows: _Newcomers have every right to harass those who lived there before them._ '

'Oh mummy, I feel so much better. I was worried we didn't belong here. And mummy, aren't those rabbits defenceless?'

'Yes they are, very much so.'

The rabbits, who had taken part in the revamped Languages Other Than Enything (LOTE) syllabus, and could now vote and even be recognised as citizens in their own country, listened in horror.

'And mummy, you know that dividing line? That border? Well; _I-can't-see-it.'_

About then there was heard much high-pitched squealing, and several thousand bunnies all thumped the ground with their hind foot then ran for their burrows. Like that would save them. The pigs used weaponry that was unfamiliar to the rabbits, in particular backhoes to lay waste to the warrens. That is why rabbits bolt when they hear a motor. _Scatter everyone, pigs in backhoes!_

The symbol for this boundary is depicted as pictures of little rabbits and well-armed pigs snarling at one another. And as you unfold this map you can say to your fellow map reader, _I know all about that line. That is where the Massacre of the Rabbits took place._

I have seen a brown snake curled up at the entrance of a burrow, just out of a cold wind; another time I saw the tail-end of a skin of a brown, heading down a burrow, and then twenty feet away, the head skin section heading out of a different burrow. I ran away. Best of all was a western taipan, and if you even look at one of these you will die; he was going down into a burrow. Can you imagine being a rabbit? If it wasn't someone trying to shoot you, or some clown releasing a deadly rabbits-only virus or a clever pig society, it was a reptile coming into your home. There you'd be, just at home with the missus and kids, maybe even the in-laws (they would be over to celebrate little Peter's birthday), and you were playing the piano, just having a singalong, when Hello, a whopping great snake's head appears from around the corner, which you, as head rabbit, correctly identify. Loudly. Talk about a scramble. The piano stool over, party hats rolling around, the fairy bread spilt over the floor, lettuce leaves left out of the fridge.

As a warning signal, rabbits thump the ground with a back foot. I wonder what the other underground-living creatures think about this thumping thing. For example, a western taipan, maybe the one now curled up in an empty rabbit warren, might say, _Hey you, rabbit things up there, stop with the thumping. I've got a full belly and I'm a bit tired. Do it now; don't make me come out there._ The rabbits, having more intelligence then they are given credit for, particularly now that it is widely known they are multi-lingual, stop immediately and put slippers on, just in case they tread on a dead stick. When you see rabbits wearing slippers, you just know what's going on.

Going through the marshes, I saw a snake every two minutes. That's thirty an hour multiplied by four weeks. And that's only coming through the marshes. Sightings had slowed a bit on the Darling, and here on the anabranch as well, down to around one every three minutes. Almost extinct really.

One lunchtime as I was sitting at the front of the tent, a very long snake wriggled past, about six feet away, which in terms of snake distance, was not that far. Snakes don't actually wriggle, they just move, because what we humans view as wriggle looks nothing like the way snakes move. If you had to describe their movements correctly, you would have to say it was a glide. The colours and patterns on this one looked like a taipan - the deadliest snake in the universe. To be sure of identification, you need to count scales, and that clearly was not about to happen.

He stopped and looked over at me, a slow, narrow-eyed, warning look, a slight raising of his head plus about three foot of snake, not so much threatening in an about to strike sort of way, just a using of his height and tongue to check things out, and give a warning. I pretended I was still reading the novel, which was now shaking. When you're sitting on your bum, it's pretty hard to be mobile quickly. So that snake could have bitten me six times, read the newspaper and had a pot of tea before I even thought about moving. Then he went down a nearby rabbit burrow. Twelve rabbits shot out of another burrow entrance, still with their party hats on.

In the old days, when I was foolish and used to pick up snakes, I knew that if I held a brown snake by the tip of its tail it couldn't creep back up its body and bite me. It was obvious that brown snakes never did their sit-ups, core body exercises or eat their vegetables. They would lunge sideways but I have long arms as a result of dragging my knuckles in Dubbo (an evolutionary adaptation, unknown before the 1950s) and the snake could never reach me.

And I thought I was clever; until I picked up an eight-foot carpet snake. It was very thick and heavy and seemed placid as it flicked its tongue and stared at me. I was the snake whisperer; I could talk to animals, I could pacify them with my aura, and they would respect me because they could sense I meant no harm. It was all going well; I was brave; I was tough, just like I always wanted to be. Then the snake curled back up itself slowly, then struck like faster than lightning and bit me on the face. This hurt considerably and I recall I may have said Damn. I let go reasonably quickly and I swear I heard it chuckle as it slithered away. What happens on the river, stays on the river. No-one must hear about this.
43

The middle-east had always fascinated me. From its extraordinary history, the different cultures and even the sneaky politics. And it grew on me until I considered staying.

In October 1975, when I entered Israel at Ben Gurion Airport, I was nervous because this was the first time I had ever seen young women in blue jeans, with M16s. A customs girl with one of these black machine guns said, 'Passport please.' I briefly considered saying, 'Maybe. And what might you want with my passport?', but her luck was in that day. Before coming to Israel, I had been told that if I got an Israeli stamp in my passport, I and my grandchildren would never be able to visit an Arab country. And I was then busting to see Petra in Jordan, never mind Egypt, Syria or what plans any grandkids might have. I also found out that I could have two Australian passports. First one was the normal ten year passport, and the second was concurrent and valid for two years. The photo in passport number one had me clean shaven with short hair, about a number two cut; passport number two had me with a bushy beard and long scraggly hair, and it was clear I hadn't washed for around two years. Or look anything like the person in photograph number one.

I politely asked machine gun girl, 'Could you please not stamp my passport?' And I handed her the clean-shaven-photo passport. I didn't mention Jordan or grandchildren, or that I had that second passport in my back pocket. I felt a bit Reilly Ace of Spies.

She said, 'Sure, even though you look nothing like the handsome young bloke in the photo because you currently look awful, and anyway, how long since you changed your underwear?'

I love the Israelis; it's the empathy.

'Here, I have stamped this little bit of paper. You are now valid for three months. Don't lose it.'

So after a while, almost three months in fact, the renewal of my entry thing was coming up. So I hitched a ride to Tel Aviv from Kibbutz Ginosar, which was next to the Sea of Galilee. How can you have a river, the Jordan, which is fresh from up Golan Heights way, flow into a huge lake, the fresh-watered Sea of Galilee, flow out fresh again as you would expect but then flow into another Sea, the Dead Sea; this one being saltier than the ocean? And below the level of the Red Sea. It's quite a large sea and if you run in and do a bomb-jump, this sea is so salty it makes you bounce and you skip across the water like a flat stone and end up in Afghanistan. The bible may have got their body of water mixed up when it said that Jesus walked on water.

The renewal-visa man, without a machine gun because he wasn't young, female, nor dressed in blue jeans, said 'Give me your passport and I will fix things for you.' I gave him the valuable slip of paper just to let him know I had entered the country properly, and for some weird reason, gave him the concurrent passport, the one with me as quite swarthy and looking like someone who might just live in one of the neighbouring countries, which he stamped. Never mind. I still have my original ten-year passport to zip into Arab countries with, and this will allow my grandchildren to travel freely in this region. How sensible am I? Not very, it turned out.

So after another little while, I found myself at the airport ready to fly back to Australia after a couple of years away and had my Darling River plan in my back pocket; next to a passport. I politely handed over the passport which had the renewed visa stamp, to a young lady with blue jeans and machine gun, and that's all she was wearing. It must be tricky to hold a machine gun in the crook of your arm and thumb through a passport at the same time, and as I was considering passing a compliment on her excellent balance, appearance and probably cold ribs, she said, 'I can see that in this passport, your photo shows that you have quite a swarthy unkempt look about you, even a little bit Israeli neighbour-looking one might say, which is making me nervous because we don't get many Arab-Australians here, as well as a renewal stamp. I can also see by looking at the dates that you have been here for over three months. Did you just happen, by any chance, to get an entry stamp to our state?'

'Yes of course I have one you dill. Do you think I'm a fool?' If you slip up and actually say those sentences out loud, well hell would break loose, from wherever it is that it is being held. And that would count as poor security I'd say; not like in Israeli airports. And I handed her that bit of paper that was inside the original ten-year passport, the one in which I appeared to be around seven years of age.

So not only was I feeling all legal, I was feeling a little hands-on-hip. That's right, Miss Customs, 1976, I win. Read that and weep. She did read it of course, and this is about when the fun started. She wasn't weeping either.

She looked down at both passport photos, then up at me with one of those straight-face-blank-stare looks, one you don't want to see on the face of a passport control official in the middle-east carrying a machine gun, now aimed toward my lower regions, and as I was about to praise her on such a quick and expert weapon shift, she said,

'You've got _two_ passports? From the _same_ country?'

Well, you blithering idiot, I must have because you've got them in your hot little hand, haven't you now. Us Aussies are cool and you Israelis need to sharpen up a bit. What I really said was, 'Yeees.' And my Adam's Apple thing bounced up and down like a frog trying to get out of a sock, and little teardrop sweat beads began to form across the top section of my forehead. The Ace just turned into the Joker.

'Something's wrong here,' she said. 'Come with me.'

'Oh, well alright, I suppose so then,' which came out as a similar yes to the other one _._

Why had I not included that bit of paper with the entry stamp when I handed over that second passport? I can give no other reason, except that my brain had been damaged by copious amounts of Resch's pilsener imbued in my early years. And that I was raised in West Dubbo. Same thing really.

It was a little over two hours later - after what I think is termed a strip search - that I was driven to the front of the boarding queue, in the back seat of a black Mercedes by several girls with machine guns, and escorted onto the plane. Ha, look at you fools lining up, waiting for seats 0-27 to be called, you think you're going in first, well you know nothing.

Kibbutz life and Israel itself, (and the middle east in general as I discovered thirty years afterwards) let me feel at home. I was adopted on the kibbutz by a Jewish family, and when I added that to the landscape, the heat, the easy going people (all carrying at least seven weapons), the history and the food, well I considered staying. But because I am an excellent map reader, I knew there was no Darling River there, and I couldn't stay.
44

A full boat sits better in the water and is therefore easier to paddle. When full and heavy the boat sits low and sort of purposeful, and stays true. However, I unloaded the boat because even though the loaded tinnie drew half a millimetre, I wanted to draw less because the edges of these lakes were so shallow and muddy, you couldn't launch a gumleaf on them. And because the boat was now lighter, it was harder to get to where I wanted to go. It was harder because empty, the boat swings and swerves each time you paddle. And a flat-bottomed tinnie, having no keel, has other limitations. For example, if there was a wind, or a strong current you wish to go across, you could paddle as hard as you like, but there are only four possible outcomes:

1) you will be blown to Antarctica;

2) you will be swept towards, and then proceed to go over, that weir or ninety foot waterfall you were trying to avoid;

3) you will capsize, lose all your equipment, and drown, or,

4) you will make it where you wanted to go, and back; (otherwise you would be with either option #1, #2 or #3.)

I sat in the centre of Traveller's Lake, which was still, flat, and smooth. Just sat. In the centre of a reflective world you couldn't see the box trees around the edges let alone the edges of your mind. You couldn't see the present, your memories, or where you thought you might have been going in life. You couldn't see yourself anywhere just a void of the mind. A friendly, welcome and desirable emptiness of vacant, this becoming of very little in the very big scheme, the middle of a very large pond with no horizon. You gasped for air to survive the silence; an eye-closed silence that tried to make you feel like you were an ant on a ninety metre cliff. This lake was so large, it had tides; it curved with the earth, so that when you paddled towards an edge you slid forward in the seat. And then, in a moment of reasonable sanity, of a now that took over the moment of dubious joy, you realise that within approximately any given ten seconds, if a wind picked up; it would be all over.

'And so, what have you been doing for the past 18 months?'

'Oh, you know, just drifting.'

'Where, exactly?'

'On rivers.'

'Really?'

'No, made that up.'

'It's such a stupid thing you're doing.'

'You sure about that?'

And she saved the best one for last,

'What are you trying to prove anyway?'

I wanted to say to this cocky's wife, _Hey can you back off a bit? Like, before I kill you?_ but I couldn't because I wasn't good at handling verbal conflict. Not real flash at the physical variety either. I sort of gathered:

1) she didn't like me,

2) she was a ball of fun to be married to, or

3) she was not a nice person.

However judgemental those may have appeared in order for me to return serve, (perhaps all three were applicable?) which I did that night when the door was locked, I then started to doubt myself. How is it that one person, whom I don't know, can make me feel like rubbish? Were the doubts there, waiting underground until someone unearthed them? There is no way that everyone is either going to like me or agree with everything I do. Can't understand why; (some people have problems). But, and here is the crunch, the crutch of the matter: I don't like myself enough to be confident enough to say:

a) go away (or similar words),

b) thank you very much for your informative and valuable comments, the committee will consider them in due course, or

c) go away (same words).

And that's what was hurting here. I knew deep down it was me I was running away from; paddling a boat to leave behind a wake of unwoken emotions. And when I faced that truth even for a second, I paddled faster. Apparently I needed acceptance from all I met, and it worried me that I couldn't cope with the non-acceptances; that I couldn't roll with the simple easy everyday of Welcome to the Real World Where It's Not Just About You, that came my way. You brash stupid dill; you choose solitude to cover up your weaknesses of not being able to cope and then by still not being able to cope, choose solitude again. Knowing all this did not help; it made it worse, because facing myself and truth are the hardest tests of all. Wanting to please everyone; that's the problem here.

Of course, it would be nice if those who did not accept me, and I am cool with those who do, silly people, would do so nicely, without the derogative put-downy-language. That's what it was, not that someone would challenge my beliefs; but how it's done. Was I not a hero to myself? Hadn't I just done well with the sheep work? Brought, singlehandedly, three-hundred and fifty thousand sheep overland from South America? And received praise from Doug of the Anabranch for doing so? Still the self-doubt, the lack of self-confidence and self-belief lets me exaggerate an existence.

I realised, right there, on the Great AnaBranch of the Darling River, as I locked the door, and practised out loud what I should have said, (like, 'Hang on a tick you snivelling little swine...'), that you could climb Mount Everest without an oxygen tank, boots or extra coffee, but if you didn't have inner-strength to shrug off disbelievers, then it would mean nothing. I had not given myself approval; I had a fear of being thought stupid; a fear of getting into trouble; a fear of ridicule and a made-up fear of the unknown. I didn't believe in myself. That, when I faced it, caused me the most grief. I needed a hug.

It was like the time below Louth where once the negative thoughts, the doubts, all came in, it seemed that's all that could come in. _Sorry nice people, no room here. We're only accepting bitterness, hatred, and anger at the world that you think owes you._ Self-talk; the bane of society's mental invalids.

I had been avoiding thinking about Rosie, except for a couple of times at night in the tent. Alright, more than a couple, but I knew that if I thought about her too much, I would have left the anabranch way earlier, and gone to her; somehow. This was more than an avoidance tactic, it was also an effort to keep me sane, and enjoy this part of the bush and what I felt that I must do because I knew if I didn't I would die inside. But now, because of the sharks thrashing about trying to find the blood in the water of my insecurities, I had doubts about me and Rosie. _Well yeah, you know, she was just a chick I knew a while ago. But then; there are plenty more out there._

After about half a second, this horrible self-deceit was erased by something I couldn't explain. Like when I forced myself to stop bad thoughts about Dubbo and dad, I was beaten to the ground, and made to reconsider. Why was I thinking this way about Rosie? Who was I trying to convince? Forbid it ever got out that I even thought about having these thoughts. It was like finding fault in someone you love because you're the one with faults; possibly the same ones. My diary entry sums this nicely:

_Oh my God, you great fool, how could you ever think that about this beautiful girl. You are weak you are not worthy. She is beyond such football-change room filth; she is sacred music, a choral rendition of grace; she is the ultimate female; who, until she perhaps reads what you have just thought, is in love with you; and, might I add, your multitude of faults, deficiencies and doubts._

And that night, the key safely on its hook, by internal analysing, justifying, and talking to myself, I did get my fire back. I imagined agreeing with the cockie's wife, but adding a little something for me.

'Look, you could be right; to you it may be a total waste of time, but to me it means the world.'

It was a slowing down, a gaining of self-worth in how I lived, and it changed the way I saw myself. It was a small victory using the changing of attitude I had learnt back there after Trilby. And it made me love Rosie all the more.
45

We groan, moan, and whinge, because we never have enough time. There is a universal ratio that says when you move slowly, time moves slowly with you, but if you scurry about, it goes much faster. And if you stress about it, it will laugh at you because time will see you as inferior. I didn't carry a watch, or a radio, just books. That thing we call time is a mixture of the definite and the elusive, depending on which viewpoint you see it from, and your physical speed.

The lakes along the anabranch were beautiful. They were expansive shallow gifts and I stared as I paddled across them because I knew I was seeing a once in two lifetimes event. At Popiltah Lake, I missed a couple of days. A timeless part of the trip and the lake owes me. I was standing in the boat, paddling across the lake, slowly; and I was weary, feeling small, tears were in my eyes, and reckoned I could just about sleep where I was standing; like a horse does. The lake had long patterns, perpendicular to me, layers of smooth and then ripple, nothing too dangerous, just the wind playing around, and possibly handing out a reminder. We only see what the wind does; I wonder what it would be like if you could actually see the wind, like Pelicans can.

I made camp around midday, and I was aching, feeling vaguer than usual, so I lay down. I was feeling sort of light, dizzy and pallid. I woke in the late afternoon, feeling sick - not a vomit thing, that would have been a relief, it was a pain low down in the belly, a severe pain, a worse pain than being walloped by a cricket ball because you'd forgotten to put your box in; a sharper pain than when six green ants bite you inside your nose; a deeper pain than when you get busted for running on the concrete at a country town swimming pool because you were terrified of a bad person.

I fingered my throat to bring it up, but nothing spoke to me; I squatted and grunted but again, nothing. I doubled up in spasms and started to shake. The back of my thighs vibrated. Someone was plucking my hamstrings and my bum cheeks were wobbling. Maybe I was about to explode. Or join an orchestra.

I wrote a note, _Me here; I'm dying. God, you got anything left to tell me, like is there anything I need to know? I am going up aren't I?_

I lay there cramping in pain like I had never had before, nor do I wish to have again for a while, waiting for the return of that same bright light I saw under the water in the tea tree forest when I got lost. I contemplated what to say to God, like _Hey, so you are real, sort of; how did you do that six day thing? You have smoko breaks? Overtime? Union picnic with the angels? Why are angels all female?_ Or, _How do you watch over everyone? There's a lot of people down here you know,_ or, _Did you invent evil as well as good, because you made everything on the earth remember. A bit of responsibility here would be nice._ Maybe, up there, you don't get an interview with God, you only talk to Pete at admin.

I thought about all the attention I would get because I would be dead. Tom Sawyer move well to the side; I would have more people wailing in church; gnashing their teeth, _Oh that poor boy, so alone on that river, lake thing. We knew he was strange, but why didn't we tell him we loved him while he was alive?_ Gnash gnash. Or possibly; _Thank heavens he's gone; getting sick of him carrying on about being lonely; not to mention those continual questions, and lame jokes. It's so beautifully quiet around here now._

I felt a searing pain in my leg like someone had stabbed me with a twelve-inch Bowie; and I know what that feels like; had it done to me heaps of times.

I leaned up on my elbows, sweating, shivering and heaving in great agony of course, and saw a black scorpion scuttling away. __ I added to the note, _Also stung repeatedly by a seven foot long scorpion, leg about to fall off, venom coursing through my body. God, if you can get me through this I'll never swear again or tell lies._

I wrote a letter to Rosie and clipped it to my note.

_Hey my sweet girl, looks like I might be losing you. Not by choice I swear. I don't feel too good and not sure if I'm going to make it. Hey, we've got something I never want to lose, and I won't; ever. I did not know I had a heart before I met you. That lump of flesh beating in there was just doing half its job. You loved me and let me be me and you let me love you and I'm hurting bad because I won't get to see you again._

_River boy_

Then I passed out.

When I awoke, and apart from a burning thirst and a tiny red mark on my leg, that kid must have only nicked me, I felt fine. Tom Sawyer you can keep your little trick. I had no idea how long I was out for, but nevermind, I had no appointments. I tossed the goodbye note into the fire. No-one else saw it; going to keep them promises for sure. Kept the letter to Rosie though; maybe I could show her one day.

I cannot account for a considerable length of time, and I know this because the next station had been expecting me quite a bit sooner than when I did eventually turn up. 'We reckoned you'd be here last Tuesday. You been sleeping for a few days or something?'

'What day is it? Hang on, is it still 1977? I was a bit crook the other day.'

'You been drinking the water in those lakes?'

'Hell no. Okay yes; boil it first though. What sort of fool you think I am?'

'Well, doing what you doing, I'd say a crazy fool.'
46

I thought the below-Tilpa days of wanting isolation were over, but they were just a warm up; a beginner's attempt at choosing to be alone. Even though I stayed with families occasionally, friendly, sociable lovely families, willing to share whatever they had; I still needed to be alone.

I walked miles across vast hills and plains of orange soil; paddled up creeks, over lakes; swam in both, and dried myself using the big towel in the sky; and I slept in the dirt. And I didn't feel lonely or worried that I may need to get out more. Harsh country, but a home away from home.

The anabranch was occasionally multichannelled, and the lakes often had several creeks going in and several coming out. Sometimes I would set up camp, then go for a mysterious paddle day. It was prudent to look where I'd been. Now this may seem unnecessary because aren't I merely going to paddle in the opposite direction, as in upstream, or downstream, to get home? Sure, but when I am on a mysterious paddle day, if you make a left turn, when you are returning you have to make a right turn. I suppose I could have used a mirror. And if you forgot which channel you'd be lost forever.

These days were maybe a little scary, because the memory of the Barwon-Culgoa getting-lost-junction was still sharp, but these days were dreamy and exciting. It's like when you go into the unknown within the known. Also called a reverse-mixture-of-seeing-day. Some days, when you get into that unknown place within a known place; when you choose to dream and not see reality, stuff happens. Not always, but when it does, it makes chance valuable and to be sought again. Simple everyday stuff for the others maybe, but for you, beautiful and exciting in its natural play of events. It is risk-taking without a bar-fight, without wild pigs, or without swatting Willie-Wagtails at two a.m. This is where you head bush and not see what you see but see what you want to see. Sometimes nothing unusual happens; but some days you see weird things, like three animals talking to each other.

I saw a cormorant, a white ibis and a water-rat. Pretty much everyday people on these rivers, but chance gave me the universe, and more. The cormorant landed in the water. They land, like a lot of water-birds feet first; a skidding of slowdowns. Too bad if one of them hit a two-inch stick poking out of the water. The cormorant climbed up a branch, then went to sleep. A water-rat swam past. Water-rats, when they swim all full-bodied and low on the surface, wriggle their bum. Kind of cute, there in the water; so graceful and like that's what they should look like. A white ibis, that bas-relief bird of ancient Egypt, walked past the two others, keeping to himself, just poking around in the shallow water.

The ibis nabbed a silver fish, and held it perpendicular across his bill. Usually the ibis would have then pointed his bill skywards, and flipped the fish so it was head down. There's a tough gig right there, because that fish was flapping like the clappers, both ends at the same time, and could have easily flipped out and landed back in the water.

The ibis, after the possible changing of the fish's position, and if he had flipped the fish the wrong way, he'd only do it once, would have jerked his head up and down, and gulped that little silver fish, and you would have seen it transported down his throat in little moving bulges. But this did not happen; not even close.

The cormorant opened one eye. A bit freaky, seeing a foxing cormorant, but mind you from where I sat, I could only see one eye, because birds, (most but not all) when they look have to turn their head sideways if they want to use both eyes on the one item. Then the cormorant erupted from his perch and attacked the ibis. Strike me pink, where did you get that from? The energy, the killer mode; and so quickly? Must remember never to give cheek to a cormorant ever again. I'd been doing it a bit lately too. A screeching missile, with both eyes blazing, just to steal a little silver fish? Things must be crook in cormorant land. God help us if someone knocked his beer over; be mayhem. Glad I had my back to a tree and a big stick handy.

The ibis, using those long black emu-type scalloped legs, with the toes pulling up together on the upwards, then flaring out on the downwards, strode away. If it was the other way around, he would stumble over his knuckles. 'You aint getting my lunch,' says he. 'Trace around me for your ancient walls okay, hunt me off your restaurant tables, but do not expect me to let my little silver fish go that easily.'

But the cormorant had a trick up his sleeve. It was a cold day. He herded the ibis towards me, and cleared his throat, just a little embarrassed-type clearing-cough that said, 'Look, there's a human there. You had better let that fish go (poor thing, not sure yet who is going to eat him), because we are not in a city park and that human, means danger and you know it.'

The white ibis, looked up at me; and believed the cormorant. He dropped the fish into the water and took off towards Alexandria.

The fish, for a brief second, thought he had freedom. As the cormorant lunged for the fish, the water-rat swam in, grabbed it, and dived under water.
47

In my aloneness, this self-selection of avoidances, I again became a mad hunter. This time there was no rifle, no indeed; I had moved away from such an easy way of killing. There was also no spear; there was no knife like just after Tilpa when I apprehended Herbie the goat; this was to be a bare-handed kill. What could go wrong?

Goannas stink real bad; it's their breath. It's putrid. You seen what a goanna eats? Live things true but also carrion that's what. They start from the rear and work in. I have seen goannas grin as they do this. They dig in and rip and tear; then pause. Then look around with green snot-like stuff drooling from their lower jaw, and they smile. Like, who watches this? Goannas are really dinosaurs; that big meteor thing didn't finish them off at all; they still roam the Australian bush. Small dinosaurs are still dangerous; they can kill you with one burp. Even cormorants have been known to avoid them at social gatherings.

I saw a goanna, a beautiful six foot long light orange and grey lizard but I was not thinking beauty, I was not thinking nature is majestic or Jurassic; I was thinking dinner. When goannas run, they can go upright and their back legs actually go in circles, and if they run like that, you've got Buckley's. Goannas can also run along the ground, real low, in a sort of side-to-side sway, and if they run like that, you're a chance of catching one before it reaches a tree and disappears for a couple of weeks. My menu item chose the latter and it was on.

At this point not being encumbered by weapons of misdirection, and still being a fast chap; I ran him down. Admittedly, there was again copious amounts of dust, bark missing from my shins, and I did swallow dirt, twigs and a few empty beer bottles, but I tackled him and hung on. And having memories of snakes who may slither back up their own body to bite, I held him by the tail - way out there.

A new learning experience was about to be brought to my attention. No, he could not crawl back up, and yes he lunged, but I had this. I was the man. No reptile would ever humiliate nor injure me again. Not for a couple of minutes anyway. The bloody thing arched and did a massive leap at me and bit my other hand. He sliced the middle finger on my left hand so deep it opened it to the bone and blood squirted across half of western New South Wales. I said several naughty words but no, I did not throw him into the river like the brown snake below Brewarrina who had also tried to bite me. I belted his head against a tree, gutted him, tossed him in the coals; and then ate him.

Is being a common bird any less special than being uncommon? Is it lacking in beauty or credibility? I don't see it that way because common is only relative to what you are used to; how many of them there are, where they live, what you see and who said they were common in the first place. For example, is the bird uncommon because you haven't ventured to its habitat, or some fool has flattened its habitat that you have previously visited, now making the habitat and bird both uncommon, i.e., not many of them? Is a bird common because people have planted several million trees such as banksia, callistemon or melaleuca, that favour noisy miners and not others such as the little brown bush birds? In Field Guides, you will read the status of birds, and there are times when it's difficult to know what that status really is. Have a go at this list:

moderately uncommon

widespread but uncommon

generally uncommon

common within habitat

usually common

very widespread and common

quite common

get back to you later

common, ranging from abundant to scarce (my favourite)

common but fluctuating

common in favourable conditions

locally abundant and or scarce

sedentary or nomadic

irruptive

widespread

patchy

quite common but difficult to find, and

buggered if I know

When I see a species for the first time, not yet categorised as common or uncommon by me, it can bring a thrill, an excitement of conquest, a thing that lets you know that I am awesome (usually to myself). There are wild celebrations. These include, individually, or as a combination of either:

a) Trying to find my way back to camp without getting totally lost and if I make it,

b) an extra half a teaspoon of sugar in the cup of tea, or

c) staying up late, (possibly until around a quarter past seven).

Sometimes I do these things without the new sighting; just to trick myself that I'm not common.

A bright orange blob of feathers was sitting on the top of a scrubby bush; twittering like there was no tomorrow. Sometimes in bird world, sitting all exposed will mean just that. However, on his day all this little bird's predators must have been at the Naughty Parrot (signed in as a guest by a Corella, and creating some tension amongst the regulars, 'Who signed _him_ in?'), and their absence gave me time to make notes. It was an orange chat; big party coming. The male bird had great warmth in his orange and yellow subtleness of colour tones, with a black chest bit. Nice contrast against the blue sky. If I was as pretty, I too would sit on top of a scrubby bush and whistle. This bird was elusive, furtive and secretive, that is, until he realised he wasn't dealing with an ordinary birdwatcher. When he truly understood that I was an equal, a brave adversary, one reputed to have fended off attacking blue-wrens with a tennis racquet, he relaxed and stayed still for at least 0.5 of a second. Plenty of time to correctly identify, and even sketch a little bird who, while listed as nomadic, moderately common, was still one worthy of instigating a raging party. I found my way back to camp, got stuck into the sweet tea, stayed up until seven thirty. The next morning I had a shocking hangover; these late nights partying are killing me.

There are some birds that are named correctly. To wit, a white-winged fairy wren. How can you go past that? No variations, name changes can be justified. Although, tinkerbell butterfly wren does have a nice ring. Mistletoe bird is apt. It must be noted that these birds are bred in captivity in Dubbo and released in time to spread seeds in readiness for Christmas. However, and this is where it gets tricky, because as indicated previously, some birds need a name change. Some because of the incorrect Little, the uncaring common, but others just because. The little eagle light phase is now the light diving eagle, the little eagle dark phase is you guessed it. The black kite is now the eye-liner kite (and is currently being sought for a part in a pirate movie). And as for the three phases of the brown falcon? They are now three separate species of falcon. First is the largish sort of light-brown kestrel, the middle rusty brown fellow is our normal brown falcon and the dark phase is the almost a black falcon. I'll get paid for this one day. It's like newness is needed because the ego is hungry. But it's not really from lack of food, merely a glut of insecurities that overload the senses. And what of our galah, that ubiquitous iconic larrikin? Three sub-species, that's what. One shall remain as galah, then gilaa the indigenous name, then either rose-breasted cockatoo, or pink ash cockatoo.
48

I stayed with Andrew and Meredith Cunningham of Nindethana for two weeks. I rode horses, motorbikes, sheep, tables, and anything not fastened to the floor. And I played rouseabout while Andrew crutched. I stayed in the old house across the river and it was a house constructed to not only capture breezes but to create them, and this brought back memories of when I was a little kid in Dubbo. Dad used to lie down in the hallway to have a midday nap. And I being in awe of him would lie down on the floor beside him. He would wear paint-splattered shorts and a blue singlet. And I would smell his tangy sweat, and lick the salt off his arms. Dubbo fathers, the ones who worked for a living, not the ones in suits, emitted so much salt they were hired by dairy farmers to lie in the paddocks.

In this old house, there was also a bookshelf. I have an obsession with other people's bookshelves; it is voyeurism crossed with compulsion. I don't look through bedroom windows any more, or make phone calls with a hanky over the mouthpiece; I look in bookshelves; way more exciting. In this bookshelf were heaps of books on the Middle East because, as Andrew later told me, his dad had spent the best part of a World War there and had been fascinated by deserts. Never mind being able to tell a book by its cover, you can tell a man by his books. Here was Doughty, Thesiger, Philby, Freya Stark, and an early copy of T. E. Lawrence's _Seven Pillars of Wisdom._ This was my Lawrence, whom I had met in Israel, talking to me again about his campaign, his own faults and his shames. Cunningham the elder; you had good books.

One day, Andrew said, 'Want to come into town tomorrow? I have some people for you to meet. They are just like you.'

'Yes I'd love a day in town. So Andrew, while we are in town, me perusing bookshops and buying bullets, and you doing what sheep farmers do in town, these lovely people who are just like me, are they then good looking, honest, have high morals, and are hard workers?'

'No Tony, they are weird.'

I laughed for three days; non-stop. Talk about dodgy humour; this was sensational. Jude, a teacher, Pete, a musician. The friendship has lasted forever and while being based on nice things, is so ridiculous I don't think I could survive without it. Who needs solitude? It's not just a couple of jokes, this is Monty-Python on speed, this is the Goons after a hard night, this is Carl Baron, Arj Barker and Danny Bhoy before they were born. Not to mention wholesome food, a feel of social and environmental equity, a deep sense of literature, and of course music like you have never heard before. Thank you Andrew. Mate; they were weird alright.

When I left Nindethana, Andrew said, 'Here take these with you,' and handed me a huge pile of his dad's books; including Lawrence.

And so after three months of tramping over lunettes, climbing sixty-foot pine trees, dodging taipans and nine-foot long scorpions, sleeping in the red dirt and drifting on a confused waterway, I walked in to the Wentworth Post Office to collect my mail.

The man behind the counter didn't look up from his chores. He just leaned his arm across clutching three thousand letters and said, 'You want to know about the chocolate cake?' Here we have a mind reader; and one who also recognises people without looking.

I said, 'Yes, I would like to know about the cake, and anyway, how did you know it was me?'

He replied, now looking at me, 'I knew you were you because every anabranch station owner between Menindee and Wentworth who came in, and some who didn't come in, even a couple from near the Northern Territory border and several passport control officers from the Middle east, gave me a pretty good description, which you seem to match quite well, and they all asked had that scruffy Pritchard fellow been in yet. Besides I've been listening to the news from Fred Davidson, The Royal Flying Doctors, our local ABC correspondent Meredith Cunningham, and of course a Sunraysia Newspaper article, so I know stuff about you that you probably don't. Therefore, I could use my peripheries, and several other senses, for correct ID.'

I decided perhaps it was time to tidy my appearance a little, have a wash, comb my hair, buy a new shirt and the like. I felt a bit ragged around the edges. My shirt, I am now ashamed to say, was in such a shambles, that just after I left the Wentworth Post Office, it fell off my back; literally.

'I received your letter from Menindee with the dollar enclosed and your request to purchase a chocolate cake for your fellow boat people in the Balmain Bullet. My wife and I, we tracked the Bullet past Pooncarie and further down towards Wentworth, which is of course when we find ourselves now in our present circumstance. As they came into Wentworth, and therefore to collect their mail amongst other things, there was a small problem. You see there was no chocolate cake to be purchased in Wentworth...'

And he opened his palms, and they said, _Sorry we tried..._

I said, 'Oh well, never mind and thank you anyway.'

'...therefore, my wife cooked a chocolate cake for the kind people of the Balmain Bullet. And here is your dollar, returned to you.'

Here, in Wentworth, I figured I was not only dealing with an Orator of Spiritual Leaning, but a couple that took not only post officing, but humanity, to a higher level. I was stunned into silence, possibly a first, but managed to say, 'Your wife cooked a cake? Because there were no cakes to buy, she cooked one? Please; thank your wife. Thank you so much to both of you; my goodness this is amazing.'

The thoughtfulness and generosity of Don and Julie Baird, the post office couple at Wentworth, was a magnificent thing, a moment to pause and feel kindness flowing through the universe like a soft cluster of cloudy stars. I had just seen the beauty of giving, this cake thing, but I had to accept the return of that dollar.

A similar thing had happened back at Trilby. Sheila's kindness had saved me from the starvation of being cold and lonely. She had given me friendship and a roof over my head. Which is of course, the only place you want a roof to be, and had asked me to help her by cleaning the gardens, unclogging the gutters, and fixing fences. I was pleased to do these small tasks which I know helped her, but when I left, she gave me a cheque as payment for a week's work and insisted I take it. I was sure Sheila was better off than me, and she was trying not to give charity but fair payment. I accepted the cheque but it didn't sit well. When I was away down river in a hotel far away from Trilby, a Salvation Army man came in handing out his War Cry magazines. He also had one of those wooden donation boxes.
49

The name on the side of the boat said Shady Lady; I said spy. Obviously a honeypot behind enemy lines, (more of those imaginary map-lines), sitting there at the bar, all alluring and beautiful. As she shows a bit more leg, she says, 'Hey, want to sit awhile?' Yeah; like forever.

She was tied up at the junction of the Great Anabranch of the Darling River and the Murray River. The boat. I knocked on the side, and Jim Best, the skipper, came up and said, 'I see you're drifting alone. Come on board and have a drink with us.'

Jim and his wife Lil of the Shady Lady, had an inboard motor, a real motor made from green cast-iron, hot engine smells and oily rags. Maybe if things got a bit tight, Jim could sell a few rags so the new owners could really and truly say, 'Yep, I can get by on one of these.'

I wanted this junction to be more than it was. I didn't want it to be two river systems coming together, I did not want to see what I saw, I wanted it to be magic to put me in awe mode, and have a belief in change and personal growth. And be the start of the next phase of this adventure; the next piece of the quest. But no; this wasn't the right moment - obviously. It wasn't a Macquarie-Barwon excitement; it wasn't a Barwon-Darling handover (okay, I got lost; still counts), this wasn't an adventurous Anabranch exit from the Darling, into something grand; this was being spewed out into a wide blue sea. _Oh yes_ the map said, _this baby is the Murray River_ but I didn't believe it. Never did like maps anyway. This was the wide, open, freakin windy Southern Ocean. Did I hint that I wasn't happy?

Just down a bit, as I struggled against a Category Four cyclone, I had an argument with a houseboat, one that was hired by city-slickers who should not be allowed away from their manicured lawns, pristine interior and fear of unclean-things attitude. Even seeing it made me annoyed, which was really unfair, because we must share our rivers, and in different ways. I was settling down a bit, and feeling almost elitist, but when they tossed their rubbish overboard; plastics, beer bottles, and a bag of soiled nappies, I went off my rocker. _Hey you - what the ****! Get out and collect that **** stuff you just tossed overboard or I'm telling on you. And yes, I'm wondering where your grey water goes too._

They weren't impressed with my choice of language but too bad. Even though I wasn't happy on this river, I still would not see it trashed. So here I was, ready to die for the Murray. So you Murray River people, you owe me. I also copied down the name of the houseboat hire place for future reference if you'd like it. No-one would trash the anabranch or the Darling like that. Too proud, too caring up there; he said, as he looked down at his millionth bag of rubbish, this one collected the day before-beer bottles it's always beer bottles.

It became obvious to me that I was in a foul mood, and it felt happy to be so. It was like when a negative mood lets like thoughts in, a cranky one does the same. What else is there I can spit at? How about the first camp site? No problem; it was a flat grassy bank; lumpy, denuded and basically crap. Surrounded by rung trees, 4WD tracks, and beer bottles; more beer bottles; and I caught no fish. Vegetables and brown rice - not bad, but I wanted fish. I couldn't read this river, it was too big, nothing was subtle, too many cross currents, too open and the gum trees so weedy. Only day one, okay, but is there anyone else out there who thinks that the Murray and the Darling are two totally different river systems?

After four days of struggling against a Category Three Cyclone (it settled a little), being capsized every ten minutes, dodging houseboats, paddle steamers and motor boats, I thought it was time to leave the river. I stopped at Lock 9 and asked for help. Bob Bonner was the lockman and he was fantastic. The Wentworth post office had forwarded my mail to him and among them were two beauties. One from my old kibbutz mate Thomas. He would be in Melbourne over Christmas and would I be anywhere nearby? The second one eased my troubled mind; it was from Rosie. _Hey you, where are you? if you're not in Melbourne for Christmas (with me) I'm coming looking for you. R._

I felt the love. I wrote a long and detailed reply. _Put the kettle on._

Bob let me leave all my gear in his shed and he bought me a bus ticket to Melbourne.

Changes can be thrust upon us, sometimes quite dramatically; e.g., a death, getting the sack, or running out of coffee, but they can also be chosen, and possibly break routines that have been in existence for a considerable length of time, and give a newness. Finishing the first Darling trip was such a choice.

Even though I had chosen to finish because of a dissatisfaction with the Murray River; the euphoria of free choice was still there. Couldn't believe it - after all that time. Did I just come through the Macquarie Marshes, drift down the Barwon, my Darling River, then the Anabranch? And I felt weirdly strange, just there dragging the boat out for the last time. I could see in from the outside as if I was me looking at me. It was an hallucinogenic mind shift without the drugs. It was a fast forward of experiences and hopes, both joined at that moment.

I felt an accomplishment for what I had done, yet it came with some confusion. A sad, happy, glad and lonesome confusion. I sort of wanted to finish and was glad when I had suggested it to me - possibly using the changing style of river as an excuse - yet I had a fear of it, like when you rip a plaster off a hairy leg. At least the hairy leg thing could be a quick pain and the hairs would grow back. Perhaps it was time to get away, to free myself from the constriction of insularity, and the narrowness of being alone. I was losing a part of me that meant something really special, and I didn't know how to retain the feeling or how to take it forward. And I did want to. So I sat down and cried like a baby for something I couldn't understand _._

I went down the rivers for adventure and certainly got it. The pigs, (there were many more incidents of being charged by pigs than the two recounted), the snakes (lost count of snakes I dodged, ran away from or ate), the fishing the glorious fishing, the characters, and the birds, which had I known it, meant something way beyond just watching them.But what of the search for belonging as I drifted down the old river?

I was still leaning toward the idea that belonging must always be related to a physical place. Maybe somewhere on the river, like dad had said? Or was it too isolated? Solitude had also asked for more and I'm not sure I knew how to answer. I loved being alone but it became scary after a time. What about on the kibbutz? The time I spent at Ginosar next to the Sea of Galilee was fantastic. The fifty or so of us volunteers became a beautiful community within the kibbutz itself, but I missed the Australian bush. London reached out but I ran away. What about the community I had in Dubbo? I changed how I felt about it because I couldn't take part in football or my trade, and I too had changed after being overseas for a couple of years. But was that all final? No more Dubbo?

What about belonging to someone through love? My footy mate tried to explain about true love but I couldn't grasp it. Then I met Rosie...and there were no rules anymore; no confusion. There was no logical way to explain the feelings of lust combined with the trust, the vulnerability of giving yourself and of accepting another. I had found true love with Rosie but I wasn't sure where it was going; as in would we end up together, for all time?

During the trip I had glimpses of something uplifting; a something that would let me see what was and what might be and that it would give me hope of understanding more about myself. I thought I had the control of attitude and this power would let me choose a happy life and work on finding out who I was. I learnt that each day can be chosen anew and I could choose how I felt.

Yet I knew I was still a thief. The old West Dubbo belief that the concept of private property was unnecessary was still alive and kicking (Joseph Pritchard - your fault). I had dabbled in honesty near the Warrego junction when I shot O'Readon's pigs, and when I owned up it did something for me. Not only the take-away lunch or the beautiful person who forgave me, although they were both exquisite, but a realisation that if you own up to stuff, well, it just may turn out okay. The beauty of Sheila, of Fred Davidson, of the Bairds of Wentworth and the chocolate cake, and the millions of people who had been kind to me in many ways was extraordinary. I almost felt unworthy - almost; steady on. But I had done nothing for anyone and this puzzled me because I had nothing to give; because I was a nothing. For all the self-questioning and the couple of breakthroughs, I still didn't know how to believe in me; I found it hard to accept me as is and I always looked to others to validate me.
**Part 4: 1977**

Melbourne
50

Thomas and I - it was like we had only seen each other a couple of days ago, and if it were fifty years the feeling would be the same. Hey, how you going? Yeah good. You remember when you were sick on the kibbutz and I saved your life? That's right. I ripped sheets, boiled water and mopped your forehead. Seen it done in the movies.

Thomas had the phone number of our kibbutz mate, Peggy. He phoned her and this is when the world shifted without asking my permission. He went _Yeah, Uhuh, Right, Got that_. _Hey Peggy_ , _hang on a tick..._ Then Thomas showed me the address, and my lower jaw fell open at least three foot and I was speechless. It was the same as the one Rosie had given me back in Wilcannia (just after I had bashed up half a dozen bad people), still clearly visible on the back of my hand. Thomas said, You alright? You look pale. Want me to boil some water? I said, Give us the phone.

Peggy confirmed the address and the room started to spin. 'Wait, you sure that's where you live?'

'Was this morning when I checked. Why?'

'Can you not tell _anyone else_ that Thomas and I are coming around? A sort of surprise?'

'Okay, I'll just ask our mate Henry around for a drink. You can explain the secrecy when you get here.'

Too much time on the river had made me soft in the head. Why did I not make the connection? Rosie had said she lived with her cousin Margaret, and it never dawned on me that the names Margaret and Peggy were the same and in this case, the very same person. Their last names were the same though, and she had told me that way back at Louth but I had not made any links when I was all unhappy just before Trilby.

So far, the mini-reunion had three ex-Kibbutz Ginosar volunteers. I knew there were five others in Melbourne so I rang them too and asked could we meet at Peggy's but didn't say who else would be there. Thomas and I bought heaps of extra food and set off for an interesting afternoon.

After I had cross-checked the house number seventy-five times; I knocked. Peggy opened the door.

'Anthony Bruce!'

Quick hugs all around, and over her shoulder I saw Rosie in the kitchen.

'Hey you with the gorgeous eyes, want to come and stay in a motel with me?'

She looked up, her eyes smiled and she said softly, 'Hey river boy, I'd love to.'

'Come over and I'll tell you about a good one I know. The rooms have no fish, snakes or river mud.'

'You sure know how to win a girl over.'

'It's not hard because I'm so classy.'

She came to me and melded into my arms. I was home. This is where I belonged.

Peggy said, 'So; you two know each other?'

Rosie said, 'Never met him before.'

'Huh; she found me sleeping on a riverbank. And she can thank her lucky stars she did. Best looking man she'll ever see. Peggy,' I said, 'you're not Peggy are you, you're Margaret'

'Sure, sort of like you're Tony and not Anthony I suppose. Why do you ask?'

'No reason really, just a bit of confusion on my part.'

'Hmm,' Rosie said, 'I don't think he's confused at all.'

We somehow ended up in her study room. Rosie had her black hair chopped short and thick, and it shone rich. It let me see her neck and her small earrings; tiny rubies set in gold. She had a black strappy singlet top showing her gorgeous shoulders, and a dark blue skirt that swirled and swished like a silky slip. She wore no shoes and I looked slowly up her long brown shapely legs. Her dark eyes flashed deeply, and I was going nuts. 'Oh Rosie, you look beautiful. Dare you to come closer.' She did, knew she would, and I ran my hands over her shoulders and down her arms. She said, 'I'll give you half an hour to stop that. You know, I was really nervous when I knew you were coming to see me.'

'Really? I wasn't. Maybe we'd better go and be sociable.'

'Sure; but first...'

'First? What's first?' and then Rosie smiled one of those smiles that said, _Come and get me._

When we headed back into civilisation, everyone's eyes said, _We know what you two have been up to, your faces are flushed, your eyes are glazed over and your skin has a sheen._ Eyes do that, they talk, just like at the Louth Hotel. And while I did care what the eyes said at Louth, here I didn't care.There was talk about the kibbutz and we told stories of Beersheba, the monastery we stayed at in Jerusalem, and the Friday night just sitting around a fire, boiling potatoes and drinking beer. All the while Rosie sat next to me, hanging on to my arm and occasionally she looked into my eyes and even stroked a pink scar above my left eye.

Rosie lead me to her room. I said, 'So you and your cuz Margaret, do you kiss under the mistletoe, like we do in Dubbo?'

'That is very inappropriate; but a little funny. Peggy told me you were coming around. But it didn't spoil your dirty little secret; it just made it all the more exciting for me. Come here will you.'

'Getting bossy in your old age; but okay.'

There were tears of missingness, of longing, and future promises we knew we could never keep. These words were a compulsion, not a choice, and were based on some deep survival and a deep love, not deceit. Surely there is nothing else in life but this feeling of belonging. Who needs an old river?

Thomas had some people to see and we agreed to meet up in a week. This free week, with Rosie, also suited with her work and upcoming study, and in that time we became best buddies. I mentioned this to her, and said, 'And if you behave, I'll even take you birdwatching.'

She said, 'You know what? I understand that I am a beginner birdwatcher and I would love to go with you the expert; you're the man.'

'Take it easy.'

Rosie took me to the art gallery to see the original Longstaff painting of Burke and Wills at the DIG Tree. These boys who had once stayed in a hotel at Menindee were now ragged men at the end of what must have been an horrendous walk. It was a large painting and captured the desolation well. In a corner of the gallery, I swear I saw Davo, standing beside his truck, tying knots. Next to him was a painting of a smiling woman; but the line to see Davo was longer. He winked at me, 'Hey townie boy, how you doing.'

Each evening Rosie and I sat and talked about the Darling, and did those gooey things you do when love is still new. And wouldn't you trade all the Murray Cod in the western rivers to keep it going.

'That bloke in Wilcannia, I should have walked away, or told him to grab both his ears and pull his head out of his bum. I always think of really smart things to say after something's happened.'

'I don't know, you did alright.'

Then she snugged in and said. 'When you said I was your girl God I loved you. I felt so proud. You wanted me; just me.'

And then she kissed me. I have been kissed before, and certainly many times by Rosie, but this kiss was my first true kiss, as in, it was such a deep and long soft kiss, and it brought the universe and stars in and it was given with so much love and truth and understanding that it has stayed with me still, which is currently a little over fifty years. I felt light-headed and dizzy, and full of inner peace and love for this girl.
51

We sat in a park on an old blanket and shared a thermos of tea and some sandwiches, just entwined a little bit, touching shoulders and dreaming.

'Remember how I said to be a good girl and I'll teach you some birds?' I said, feeling all smug, righteous and better-than-you. 'Well, there be an ibis, a kestrel and a peregrine.'

And when a white-faced heron looped overhead, I cut loose. 'Rosie, common is okay too. Not that I would know about that.'

Rosie rolled her eyes. 'And did you know that the eggs in a magpie nest, may come from different fathers? No? Didn't think so.'

'Hey...?'

I thought it strange that Rosie had said to bring a warm coat. It was currently around four hundred degrees Fahrenheit under a deep blue sky. Just after lunch the temperature dropped to fifty degrees and was accompanied by a wind that cut people into little pieces. I said, 'What the hell is this place. You were right about that weather thing.'

'I'm always right, you know that.'

An orange wind howled through the streets and skyscrapers and transferred another three foot of topsoil from the anabranch to the Southern Ocean.

One morning Rosie pulled out a photo, a hazy 1950's black and white. Something weird was going down; I cut the air with my pocket knife and put the pieces to the side to make room for what was coming. She passed me the photo; a bloke, dressed in a coat, white shirt and thickly striped tie, looking at the camera, knowing it was a posed shot. Even more noticeable, he was looking straight through the person who was looking at him; a piercing look, not angry, just direct and confident, and perhaps a little cheeky with a glint in his eye. Probably good with the ladies. And didn't he have a bugle, my heaven, you could have stored last year's wheat harvest in there, but to add to the bizarreness of the situation, here with Rosie holding an old photo, this bloke was standing on the banks of the Darling River, a glass of beer in hand, next to a fishing line tied to a stick.

'Hey I know now why you went out there.'

'And why would that be, Sigmund?'

'You wanted to find that fishing spot?'

Rosie didn't even acknowledge me, because she knew that I knew, that my dumb reply was from my nervousness, not hers.

'It's my father, and I just want to know where he is? I want to know who my parents were and why they ditched me.' And tears ran down her face, flowed down like storm water running off a cliff face.

' Rosie, come here to me.' And she laid her head on my chest and cried and her heart was broken.

'They gave me away, I wasn't wanted. Why would you do that? How could you do that to your own baby? I don't have any belief because I have no place to get it from. I have nowhere I can belong. I don't even have my own name.' She blubbered and doubled up with sobbing.

I hugged her and big fat tears squeezed their way out and I had sorrow for this girl who was hurting. She said the photo came with her, so someone, maybe her dad, had put it amongst the baby clothes? I had no answers, all I was thinking of was this fisherman with a schooner of beer in his hand, which explains Rosie's reason for pulling beer in pubs along the Darling. He might even have other kids out there somewhere, and they might look like Rosie.

Looking more closely, he seemed to be uncomfortable in his clothes, like it was his Sunday best that didn't fit properly; the type you would wear to a funeral, for example. The coat, tight across his waist, had its two buttons done up; the trousers were stovepipe with a subtle stripe, and hadn't been ironed for around six years. He was a slim fellow and as I looked down his trousers, and I know that does not read well, I saw something amazing; I bet they all say that. He was wearing Dunlop Volley sandshoes. I was warming to him. He might have owned a pub, half the sheep stations on the Darling, or more likely was a weekend dresser-upper; maybe a shearer or a rousie. He was standing on a sandy beach, with huge river gums in the background. And it was the Darling alright, no confusion there, but it could have been anywhere between Bourke and Wentworth. And Rosie was certainly his; they both had the nose, the swarthy skin, the black hair. He was a handsome bloke, perhaps a little more wog than Arabic. Maybe he was of Afghanistan descent? Who was Rosie's mother? Was it his wife, or someone else? The maid? Shearer's cook? I'd want to know too. Maybe he didn't really want to give her away so he left a photo? Contact details on the back would have been handy

Rosie did not have hate, but confusion and longing, and here's me, _oh boo hoo help me, I need to belong somewhere_ , _I just want to be accepted._ You moron Pritchard; you have no idea. I was avoiding what I already knew and was looking for something else that was unobtainable, and wanting it that way, because when you choose to be a helpless victim, it gives security as well as false comfort. Freud decided to limit his complaining.

We snugged in bed and Rosie said, 'Remember we talked of belonging somewhere, of having an ownership over yourself because of a place? And we agreed that a place to belong to, a physical one is a place, maybe with family, where you exhale and say, yes this it, where everything falls into place. It means this is where I fit in, I am accepted and I have community. Well, I can't do that because for starters I don't have a family. Yes, I've been looked after really well; Peggy's mob are really kind. But my roots, my belongingness have been lost. That's why I pulled beers down the Darling; to look for my family and where I might belong. And I know you're looking for stuff too.'

'How did you know that?'

'Because your heart told me, and yes you were right back there at Louth; I am one of you. Hey, remember what I said after that?'

And then it was another ant in a bucket wraparound hug, a gripping of heat, a full kiss of love and giving, and a joining of two hearts.

Rosie said, 'I am going to better myself and prove I am someone; to me. That is all I want. Well yes, I was searching for my father out there on the Darling, not with a great deal of preparation I must say...'

I liked the lack of preparation bit; it felt like I was home.

'...and one day, I will look my real parents in the eye, and you know what?'

'What?'

'Even though I was upset before, and I do get angry, I don't want to say to them, "Look how good I turned out," I just want me to be proud of me and what I achieve, and then maybe they too would feel good. And then who knows, maybe a place to call home? And more importantly, me to feel good about me because I know where I belong and where I'm loved? Imagine that! Then even have a family maybe?'

Rosie was so appreciative of being accepted into university. She said it was an honour, a privilege, and it would certainly be hard because she didn't know how to study at that level but it was this opportunity to have something of her own. I realised not only how precious this was to her but that I would be a distraction. Not that Rosie even hinted at that.

And so it was that Melbourne turned into crap. I was run over three times by trams, breathed so many fumes I spluttered and looked ragged like a gum tree on the Murray, and the incessant noise was giving me headaches. Everyone dressed in black and they ran around like meat ants, scurrying, snarling at each other but without touching feelers, wearing grooves in the footpath of their numb existence. And the weather featuring six seasons in the one day; what was that all about? I felt out of place in Melbourne; I just wanted to go back to an old river and to my motel with my gorgeous barmaid. I wanted to recapture what I knew, and stay with the security of the river, the roughness, the smells, the soft cuddles, and was too scared to face the changes I could see coming.

Rosie was adamant that she would one day find her father, and indeed both parents, and that maybe another visit to the Darling would be in order to achieve this. I liked that idea and I reached for an envelope. We would start at Mungindi on the Queensland border and go all the way to Wentworth; take around twenty years I reckon. The old river, me and my Rosie. Probably have six or seven kids by the time we arrived at the Murray. I still dream about that one.

We both knew that we were each independent, not selfishly or arrogantly so; but needing space, which somehow seemed crazy. You meet someone whom you love and want to be with but still need to do your own stuff which included being alone to do it. Rosie had to do what she had to do; bit like a bloke I know who thought he had to write. Let us close our eyes brethren and focus on good rubbish, because I am the experienced Attitude-Changer. Or so I thought.

Thomas wanted to see some real Australia, so no better place to take him than Menindee on the Darling. Of course this gave me a valid excuse for leaving Melbourne, not to mention go back to the old river. And I was leaving Rosie to get on and do her study. The nobleness was stunning. I was what? Leaving this girl, to go back to the river? Was I totally insane? To go and do one's own thing and respect the other's was a wonderful thing, but where was that going to lead?

'Tony,' she said, looking me in the eye and being the more rational one. I liked to look into Rosie's eyes. 'We will meet again, you know that. But you can chase other girls. You know what I mean. It's okay, I don't mind.'

'Sure. I'll blow the dust off my little black book and away I go.'

'You got such a book? You swine.'

'Hell yeah. Here look at this list.' I held my palms up and read, 'Admittance to the Euro Club of Western New South Wales - membership includes a gift card, which says, "... unlimited cuddles from Euros, free lemon squash and a punch in the head." Shall I go on?'

'No, no, you seem set for a while. Maybe don't lead with your head next time you get into a scrap. You're sick Pritchard.' And then she wrapped her arms around me.

This farewell wasn't as reassuring as the others; basically it was rubbish. I couldn't do Melbourne, not that that was an option. Rosie now worked at two jobs plus her study was about to start.

She said, 'Where are you going with Thomas? I'll bet you're going to the Darling.'

'Huh, don't you think I can travel to anywhere else? Yeah, okay you're right.'

'Again.'

'Me and Thomas are going to have a hitchhiking race to Adelaide, then up to Menindee. Going to show him a real river, and eagles and things. Bet you'd like to come too. Hell, Rose, you're always right.'

'Hush now. Oh Pritch what are we going to do? I can't stand it. You're going away and I know it must be, but I don't like it.'
52

The freedom of hitchhiking, usually uplifting and tinglingly adventurous, now felt flat. It was all I could do to not burst into tears when I sat in a stranger's car. For heaven's sake toughen up. How could I leave? What does a bloke believe in? Had I not found this beautiful girl, who while being a lost soul herself in ways that I would never cope with, really understood how I couldn't fit in, who loved me I knew that, and I was what? Leaving? For crying out loud, I look for love, find it and then run away. I was sliding down into that deep hole, and I couldn't see the bottom. I sat in cars and trucks and stared straight ahead not hearing the polite questions from the person who was doing me a favour.

Thomas beat me to Menindee. By about a year. 'Hey Aussie, where you been?'

'I went via Darwin to give you a chance. '

I lost weight in Menindee; something to do with not eating for five days. Yet the Darling itself was brilliant. See, I came back and it was good. For now it was, but this changed in a short while, and it involved the next going back, sort of connected to this one, as well as one in the future I didn't do.

In Menindee, we played tennis. Thomas who was a tennis coach played tennis. I was a squash player and we lost thirty-seven tennis balls that I belted over the fence into the saltbush. I couldn't do that tennis stroke that went thwock, mine just went thwack and the ball went into the sky. We stayed in the huts at Kinchega National park, cooked dampers and walked to the Darling and we saw emus, red kangaroos, and echidnas.

Having an American friend come to Australia gives any Aussie a licence to indulge in tall stories. It's a tradition that in the past has involved drop bears, Vegemite, and things that will kill you. I saw no reason why I should avoid my national responsibilities. And here along the Darling is where Australia would have been proud of me; probably be a national holiday in honour of my efforts to scare the hell out of an American.

When we saw an echidna, Thomas was keen to tip it over to see what its belly was like. I rushed over and grabbed his arm; 'Man! What are you doing! Their spikey bits are loaded with venom! Come to the side; slowly, because if he senses fear, he'll fire some quill things at you.'

And when we were on the banks of the river doing a quiet bit of fishing, Thomas was poking about on the edge of the water. 'Mate, wouldn't stay there too long if I were you.'

'Why?'

'This bend is crawling with crocs.'

'Come-on!'

'Fair dinkum. These things are twenty foot long and they lay there just under the water, watching. Then they lunge up and grab you and drag you, real slowly, back into the deep dark hole. They are killing machines, undeterred by evolution, firearms or warm beer.'

As he was staring deep into the deep water, I lobbed a stick into the river just to the side. I swear he leaped up four foot and ran up the bank; at the same time.

Thomas had to go back to America, and we both knew we could meet forty years on and we'd still be mates. Knocking about in Australia and reminiscing about Israel was a load of fun. Of course I had shown him the only real Australia; the Darling River. There was nothing else worthwhile to see. No surfing beaches, no ancient rainforests, deserts, or rugged Kimberleys; could have even taken him to West Dubbo.

I stayed on at the Kinchega huts and when a beautiful student was being extra friendly I thought of Rosie's comment, but I wasn't interested. Yet if I had found that special girl and I had no interest in other girls, why was I here?

The old river was low and swept around those typical Darling bends; just how I had longed it to be. Yet it was losing its magic. How can this be? It's just a river - isn't it? Couldn't this be another of those Same-Place Different Feeling things? Because wasn't I the expert at changing attitudes? The one who said nothing would ever faze him again? I went down in a screaming heap of gravel. I was in no mood for deep reflection or attitude changes. I was the dregs in the coffee cup; I was a flat beer; the empty bait tin of life. But why couldn't I change my attitude to things like I sort of promised myself? Knowing I had the means to lift but chose not to; that hurt more than feeling miserable.

I collected letters from the Menindee Post Office and there was one from Melbourne.

_Hey pritch come back I didn't mean all that rubbish about you going away from me and having to do stuff - and certainly I did not give you freedom to chase other girls - I had my fingers crossed. You keep right away from them - I know what they're like. I am hurting badly. How can we manage this? No, don't come back. We must do this thing. I'm working a thousand jobs and getting ready for this studying thing and this is all I do, and yes I do need this for myself and I know you respect that and I love you more for it but I dream about you, day and night. How weird to know that Richardson and Pritchard both mean son of Richard. Never mind kissing cousins, you don't think...What about you knowing Peggy/Margaret the same girl from Israel. Don't worry about the last name meaning thing, I was kidding. Like your Dubbo and mistletoe joke. You were joking right? God Pritchard, you are sick. Anyway, Richardson ain't my real name, you know that now. I don't have one of my own. Yet. You still got one parent I got none. Don't know who I am or where I belong. The big umbilical cord of life, severed. My little secret; being tossed out at birth. Then adopted by Peggy's aunty, how cool is that. One day, no wait, there will be no one day, but several million days, we will be together. , where are you?_

Where was I my sweet Rosie? Going under because I was missing you that's where. Trapped within my own self-sown sorrow. With Thomas gone, and no idea when or how to see Rosie, I had total confusion and nowhere to turn. And then, I had a thought; potentially a dangerous thing to do at the minute. I would leave Menindee, go up to Tilpa and drift down the Darling to Wilcannia again.

It was early1978 and the heat was blasting. It was over a hundred degrees each day for a week, and at night the temperature was about the same. I did it wrong, I went back drifting on the Darling because of desperation, not because of a dream or passion and excitement. Tilpa to Wilcannia was horrible. Wash my mouth out with soap. I had trouble breathing again, gasping for a way out; too much soap perhaps. In circles with my mind. I even missed the Shangri-La spot. I must have been lost. And I had four weeks of it.

I drifted one-hundred and eighty three river miles and it nearly had me undone. I believe in fate, but also an element of free choice, and to a point, making your own destiny. Not this time; I was forced to do it by my unstable mind and the trip was an excuse to try and recapture stability through something, and someone, I loved. Sometimes you can love two things at the same time, but not this time. Going back can be a beautiful thing or a total failure and there's no halfway. This time it was a bad mistake, a real bad mistake. __ I was in no state to accept what was, even before I went back, so basically I was screwed from the start.
**Part 5: 1978**

The Macquarie Marshes
53

Security can come from the usual degenerate choices; alcohol, drugs, or family; mine came with the routines and comfort of solitude, birdwatching, and an inland waterway. Possibly boring, and definitely repetitive, but accomplishing what they are meant to - a familiarity of securities. Maybe I should have opted for the former choices. And so I retreated to the Macquarie Marshes, and rented an old farmhouse for a year. And even though this was just another escape with the sameness, it became life-changing, as much as if not more so, than the eighteen months on the rivers.

On the river, I was asleep early each night; no choice really. Apart from tiredness, the kero lantern clinched the deal with its dull orange glow. But here in the relative civilisation of an old farmhouse, things were different. I had electric lights; the most brilliant domestic application since hot water, Aeroplane Jelly and fly spray. I stayed up late reading and there was a silence I could hear a rushing and roaring in my ears like that magical black and white test-pattern you see when you close your eyes tightly. Yet this midnight-blue silence which surrounded my imagination, gave me authors to sit beside; it was a silence that took me to where they wrote about and it also let local sounds through, unobtrusively and in sync with the turning of the planet.

Curlews, coughing kangaroos and chirruping crickets filtered in between James Baxter, A. J. Campbell and Bohumil Hrabal, and the noises' normalness registered with my brain's networks, letting me ride, climb or soar without fear, worry or furrowed puzzlement. Some new house creaks and groans also made it through to the keeper, a few got snaffled in slips and several were caught on the boundary. But one, one did not fit in. It was given no-ball each time and the call became distracting until I worked out who it was that could not bowl correctly.

The sound, always late, was a swish swish sound, soft and constant, and it always came from under the floorboards. First time I heard this I put the book down because new sounds that are not within the written rules let the imagination off its chain. And at first it runs in crazy circles tearing up the lawn in its excitedness, jumping up, panting, with saliva flying about in huge gobs. And then, once it gets rid of the newness and energy, it lays down, on what's left of the lawn, with its front feet crossed. I was in the initial stages of doggy freedom, and I thought the swishing, scraping sounds were fiends, who would rise up when I lay asleep and kill me. It was obviously ghosts; the spirits of innocents who'd been bludgeoned to death a century ago and who were looking for vengeance. And because the floorboards were only about nine inches above the dirt, these were fairly small ghosts. Why do ghosts only come out at night anyway, it's not like they need darkness as a cover. Maybe ghosts are only visible to us in the dark? So that means the little suckers are there in the light watching and waiting. It's not like they need to sleep or anything. I suppose if you didn't need sleep, you'd get a lot done. You'd be ticking things off your list pretty quickly. And anyway, how can ghosts make noise? Don't they go through walls and stuff?

One morning at daybreak I saw five echidnas running around the house. Literally. They were running fast and were obviously in training. They had sponsored-headbands, carried little bottles of sports drink and stopwatches. I saw one back-answering a line referee. Be an interesting event at an athletics meet. Their run, while being faster than I thought they were capable of, was more of a trundle, like a miniature bouncing emu. Echidna spikes are really sharp (and apparently venomous) and it was lucky I wasn't staggering out barefoot for a nature call because after I had stepped on the first one and screamed in pain, and hopped about all tippy-toed, I'd probably land back on one, or all of the remaining four.

Echidna's back feet sort of bend under and point backwards and their long hairless pointy nose thing sniffs and tests everything. It is a bird that lays an egg; a reptile without scales and a mammal without teats. They have no teeth, and the male has a spur which he is not afraid to use. These were my ghosts.

I cooked on an open fire in a bedroom and slept on the floor wrapped in a blanket in front of this fire. Didn't wash very much, stayed up late into those almost noiseless night times; reading. Franz Kafka said that, '...books are a narcotic,' and I was okay with that.

I wrote about what was inside my head, which still left plenty of room for War and Peace, and the runners in the next Melbourne Cup field - with white space available. I wanted to write like Skvorecky and let it flow into a dream-like prose; I wanted to be an Eastern European Kerouac; I wanted to be the next Hemmingway and use words so economically I would get credits; and when I devoured Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass,_ a raw and beautiful poetry, I thought, How does one become a writer like these people? Do you write of a life lived or of dreams? Is a writer a symbol of a time, a state of mind for all of us that can carry across generations as well as be accessible to all people?

During the days when I didn't go into the marshes, I sat on a box and stared and thought about stuff. This was solitude and quietness, it was a sharpness of breath that moved the below Tilpa feeling into another level; it was a hermitness that equalled the sleeping in the orange sand of the Anabranch and I didn't mind it. Yet I still dreamt of the mixture that might be possible: the birdwatching, the books and this individual aloneness within a relationship that also had the deep love. And if these dreams seemed a bit out there in their early stage, that's all right because at least there's a chance they might come true because if you didn't have a dream then how would the universe know where to steer you? Or if something happened it would just be a something and not a dream and you wouldn't know.

There was stuff happening in and around the marshes, and about to happen, with regard to fires, not particularly legal canals and sneaky irrigation, and my vocal opposition to these was answered with the suggestion I may have to undergo a medical procedure. A few locals had hinted that unless I shut my mouth I would be hamstrung and left for the wild pigs. Some environmental crusaders are persistent and brave. Some use the media to raise money and to promote their cause. I shuttup and didn't lock the door and think up any comeback lines. I'd seen what pigs do to a sheep stuck in the mud.

So I relaxed, grew tomatoes and beans and wrote a letter.

_My beautiful girl, I don't know where I am. Most of my body, that stunning example of manhood you like to cuddle is next to the Marshes. My heart is in Melbourne. That place of tremendous weather and safe trams. I think you're weird. Like you say, I know how to win you over. We have so much fun together and I always feel safe with you. Not from crazy people who try to kill me, but you don't crumple my feelings - not that I'm sensitive. Tell me, why do we keep being apart? I have been running in circles since I saw you last, even while in the boat, so they must have been little circles I suppose. Lucky I'm a well balanced bloke. Menindee with Thomas was great and we talked about the kibbutz and hitchhiking around Israel but then when he left I felt all lost. So I escaped back to the old river again to see if that had something that could help me. I went from Tilpa to Wilcannia again, and hated it. What a rubbish river. Sometimes you can go back. I'm not so good at picking where and when, not to mention if. Now I am really somewhere other than the Darling; the Macquarie Marshes. Life is wonderful here, just the usual; ghosts, vicious monotremes, and the feral cats - and they seem to be dying for no reason._

_I watch birds and read and sleep next to an open fire and holy hell I miss you. It's more than a missing it's like a vagueness that I walk around with because I'm looking for you and did you know I talk to you every day? And I mean every day. Hope you can hear me, some of it is worthwhile. I can't live without you but I can't live there and you can't live here, is that it? How easy is that to solve. We close our eyes and stick a pin in a map of Australia and bingo. Hey, want to have a baby? Write to me will you I'm dying._
54

These days for primary school camps, kids fly to Canberra to watch parliament sitting, or get driven in an air-conditioned bus, with a DVD player, gourmet, nutritionally balanced cardboard and Wi-Fi, to a ropes course for Testing Your Boundaries and Don't Worry Jump It's Really Safe. In 1963, excursions were slightly different.

There were no signed permission forms, no medical checklists, or no boxes to tick as to whether little Billy preferred butter over margarine. I still cannot imagine the pain you would have felt if you had said, with attitude, 'Well, I only eat tofu.' Or if you mentioned you weren't feeling well, the response would have oozed compassion. 'You gonna spew? No? Then get back in line and shuttup.'

Our bus had a long snout, hard seats and certainly no movies to watch, as we bounced along like something in a cartoon, singing songs (quietly) in our excitement at getting out of class. Our air-conditioning was called opening the windows and sticking your head out, we were told to make sure we had something to eat before we left and for goodness sake, to have some toilet paper in your back pocket. Dare you to not tap along to _Da Do Ron Ron, Then he kissed me_ , or _Be my Baby._ Just remember any of you young people; our generation may have decimated the environment with DDT, nuclear testing and subdivisions; but we gave you awesome music. You can make it up by supporting us when we're decrepit. Just make sure the food is organic, and wheel us away from the microwave, the overhead power lines and the mobile phone tower. And the wi-fi router, the six o'clock news and anything made from white flour.

Our first excursion was to a dairy where we learned that if a cow plopped into the bucket of milk, it was stirred in and nothing was said. When the dairyman was asked whether it was true that the cows were the same colour as the milk in those third pint bottles we were given back at school, he never missed a stroke. 'Of course; already answered that when you were back in kindy. Some of you kids don't listen.'

When questioned further as to where those green and pink cows might be, and perhaps could we see them, he merely stated that they '...were out in the back paddock.' To believe is to trust; and to trust is to never doubt what you are told. Where are you 1960s? Six of the best, free milk, and red light areas; don't you just miss some things.

On the next excursion we visited a market garden, where my school buddy Joe lived, and for me this was a bit tricky because his family knew that my dad nicked their melons and pumpkins from the flooded river. When we were assembled in front of the bus ready to go home, after a fantastic look at packing sheds, ploughs and pumpkins, with our samples held proudly in our hands, our teacher said, 'Joe's Dad, I hear that theft is a major concern. These people who steal off you,' and he eyeballed me, 'they must be lowlifes. Could you please give your thoughts on this and those _evil_ criminals, to the children of Dubbo West Public School?'

Joe's dad, and may he rest in peace, said, 'Well sir, while it is true there are some people out there who focus on bad things,' and he paused, '...there are others in society, while they may borrow a few small items, they always give back much more,' and he looked at me and my cuddled pumpkin. _Baby I Love You._

Next was the Abattoir; and this is where Dubbo West Public School came into its own. Taking kids on an excursion to see how local food was produced was admirable. Our primary school was well before its time; we were there before carbon footprints, sustainability and Fairtrade. A dairy for milk, a market garden for vegetables, and now an abattoir for meat. The first two come highly recommended for today's children; having a squeeze of a cow's tit or picking up a pumpkin says natural; it says fun and earthy. Perhaps the third excursion might need tougher hearts; seeing sheep getting their throats slit has that effect.

The smell of tallow and gumboots have stayed with me for over fifty years and are still in my nostrils. Good old Dubbo West; progress and enlightenment at its best. I have since dealt with my psychological issues involving alcohol, reading comics and being raised in West Dubbo, but asking for a glass of fresh blood at a restaurant still causes me anxiety.

The Dubbo West Public School badge has a green background, and two golden wheat sheaves either side of a red star, with _Always Onward_ emblazoned across the bottom. They never took us to a wheat growing farm. Perhaps the wheat things could be changed to udders, a pumpkin, and a sheep's head.

Killing things to eat had never been a problem; did it every other day. Fish, pigs, goats, kangaroos, rabbits, water dragons, snakes, goannas, thistles, cicadas and grasshoppers. Even extended the eat thing to include the emotional longing of I've got enough to eat but I just want to kill. Prime example; cats. Even cats as pets in suburbia make me load the .22. I feel bad saying this; a little bit, maybe. _The Lion Sleeps Tonight._ Forever. But along the river, I had never killed a sheep; until now.

I did a bit of local work like painting houses, crutching lambs, or ironing business shirts; and was paid in either bottles of tomato relish, access to television, or sheep, which I butchered and stored in the freezer. The television and relish arrived dead, but not so the sheep. I had seen farmers kill and dress a sheep, and sometimes their fashion sense is quite bizarre, and they would have chosen a sheep from a small mob in the house paddock roughly the size of Tasmania, called The Killers. When I asked, 'Why are those sheep in the house paddock,' and was told, 'Oh, them, they're the killers,' I thought, I'm not going into that paddock. They don't look that nasty.

I used my primary school excursion experience to lay the sheep down, bend his head back, stick a sharp knife into his exposed throat and cut outwards, thereby severing everything that was keeping him alive. Never look into sheep's eyes as you do this, because you will have nightmares, even after you are dead. After the sheep completes vibrating, cut into the hocks and insert the iron bar thing and hoist him up in the little hanging-up shed, all the while dodging free-falling blood. Place a silver bowl under said dripping blood. Have a drink. If you must know, I'm part vampire. Skin while still warm, gut, and save the kidneys, liver, heart and lungs, because you are going to eat them. If the temperature is cool enough and you have checked that the gauze wire was still fly proof, leave him hanging to set. It means that the meat gets over its rigor mortis stage, and will be more chewable. Best to cook it first though.

When you go to a butcher's shop, there are all the different cuts already in containers. I didn't know where a leg, a shoulder, shank, or a loin chop came from; obviously a failing of that excursion; what is wrong with the New South Wales Education system? I found a rusty handsaw and sawed the sheep in half; longways. Now I had two sheep, each a bit skinnier than before but sort of identical, and I worked my way in and found out where that leg, shoulder, shank, and those little loin chops came from.

Eventually, I ate the whole sheep; including his noise. On my open fire, when the coals were thick, I filled the camp-oven with a shoulder and kidneys, olive oil, a handful of herbs, dash of soy sauce, lots of garlic, ginger, lime juice, a spoonful of mustard and an onion. Added a dash of water and returned five hours later.

Communication to the house consisted of mail deliveries twice a week, those who dropped in, usually unannounced, and a magnificent telephone system. The last is unheard of in developing countries, the Communist Bloc and above the Arctic Circle, but state-of-the art next to the marshes in 1978. It is referred to as the party-line telephone. It is the best system devised on the planet because you can listen to others without them knowing. Australia's data-retention laws are small-change; trust me. The ring-tone was done in Morse code and my line was D; which was one long and two shorts. If I was outside and heard some rings, I couldn't be sure if I had heard correctly. The polite bush thing to do would be to race in, pick up, and say, 'Tony here, this for me?' and you'd either get a yes, no or a piss-off. Or; you could pick up really quietly and listen.

'Yeah good Brian, you know that bloke renting down the road? Well, all he does is read books. You reckon he's normal?'

'Nuh Bill, I don't. Apparently he watches birds too. Reckons he got through the Northern Marshes too. You reckon he made it?'

'Impossible. What does he read? Or does he just look at pictures?'

And if you wanted to ring out, you picked up the earpiece and then whirred the little handle on the base at like at a hundred miles an hour and someone, it was always a old lady with her hair in a bun, at the exchange would ask, 'Yes, who do you want?'

'Oh hi, could you put me through to Sophia Loren please? No? Okay, how about Matey and Julie-Ann down at Meranda? I believe there's a clearing sale coming up.'

A clearing sale has temptation and want over need; it has greed, selfishness and a total breakdown of personal morals, ethics and anything remotely resembling fiscal policy. These are all of course vital for a fulfilling life of inner happiness. I bought a lawnmower, a long-handled shovel and a pushbike; all for a dollar-fifty. The lawn-mower was made from four lengths of milled hardwood (from an ancient river-red gum) and an old aircraft-carrier; and was a walk-behind push job. My forearms and shoulders are still larger than my spindly thighs and calves. The shovel, and can I say here that mankind has benefitted from three recent inventions; the wireless, sliced bread and the long-handled shovel, and this shovel that I bought, which needed two men to lift it, was used to dig the holes for the Overland Telegraph poles, to clear the Brigalow scrub, and several hundred acres of Lantana in North Queensland. The pushbike had been to the Tour de France (twice), seen two World Wars and had been used to muster sheep in and around the Marshes. Its tyres were so thick you could ride over broken glass, meat pies and nuclear warheads and not get a puncture. And it was a fixwheel. If you say that last word to a country kid, he or she will shudder from the memories of excitement and pain; often experienced at the same time.

Back in the old days, extras like gears, shock absorbers and seats weren't invented. All country kids knew what a fixwheel meant for their health, and possibly the length of time for their hospitalisation and subsequent rehab. Fixwheels have but one gear only, a very high one to boot, and the effort required to pedal was enormous, but when you got her going; it was bliss. West Dubbo kids had thighs so muscular they were approached by the Russian ballet to assist Rudolph in his physical development. And look how that turned out. When you came down a hill, you had three choices:

1) Go like blazes to keep up with the pedals; which were now smiling at you,

2) Put your feet up on the handlebars and let her rip. This did have a slight problem because if you needed to put your feet back on the pedals you risked them being chopped off at the ankle by two circular saws;

3) Abandon ship.
55

In September there were two major floods, from local falls as well as upstream, and I got to see what I had hoped to see along the river trip; colonies of nesting waterbirds. Here was an inland waterway in its boom cycle, and it was making a lot of noise. The birds came in their millions; egrets, ibis, cormorants, clusters of darters, nankeen night herons, blue-billed ducks, and musk ducks. I made a bird-hide out of an old tractor tube, two hoops and a wool pack. I crept along in the shallow water, photographing and recording. The arthritis in my left knee still plays up, but it was worth it. Never mind memory associations from smells or music, each time I limp it takes me back to an ibis colony.

Occasionally in life you meet a birdwatcher who will make you think about not only how little you really do know, but also move you into a greater appreciation within what little ability you do have. _When the student is ready; he will probably do his homework._ And bring you into the spiritual world. Everyone needs such a birdwatcher; surely _. Give a man a new sighting and he is fed for a day; but show him how to birdwatch, and he is ruined for life._ Back at Trilby on the Darling, as I watched the singing kettle, and recaptured my mind amidst kindness, I had written to Alan K. Morris from the National Parks and Wildlife Service and talked about the Macquarie Marshes. In his reply he said maybe one day we would catch up in the marshes? So I now contacted him at Coonabarabran, and he came over a couple of times.

Now, I was with The Master. Seriously. We'd be wading along a channel, talking about photography, and he'd say, _Yes I give the aperture a nudge for this time of day glossy black cockatoo up high shouldn't be around here atall reed warbler calling in that cumbungi two kilometres to the south or maybe slow the speed down a bit did you see that immature Blue-Faced Honeyeater in that box tree it has a yellow cheek Fuji film is pretty sharp don't you reckon?_ I was still back with the glossy black. __ There was no bird in the Macquarie Marshes that Alan could not identify. Probably anywhere on Earth. My favourites were raptors, and if you even mention this word, I am your slave for life. To assist in this transition, I require refreshments and chocolate. Alan Morris taught me that if you want to identify one of these raptors, you need to do so in half a second. You must know if the wing plane is straight or curved, what is the flight pattern, how high is it flying, where and why it is flying, and what it had for breakfast. And most importantly, back yourself and practice lots. Once you identify one, don't change your decision and after a while you'll get them correct.

I am a list person; I invented lists; but to relegate birdwatching to a List? For goodness sake, why would you do this? And what beauty you see, what strength, what cunning, what extraordinary events you may see, or think you see out birdwatching, is yours and yours alone. It's an interpretation, because the birds don't care about you. This could be threatening, and even shock some hard-core birdos who for some crazy reason think they have a rapport with the bird/s they are watching. It is the beholder who gains, not the beholden. The beholder chooses what to gain or lose from the experience, no-one else. (Unless of course you are climbing near a falcon's nest, then the falcon adds to the mix by attempting to rearrange several of your body parts.) Can it be that this revelation, that is related to the choosing of attitude I had learned from the Darling?

Solitudinal birdwatching became esoteric; and I felt now that by living here next to the marshes, and not merely struggling to stay alive in reedbeds, cumbungibeds, or riverbeds, but in a more relaxed environment, that birdwatching had moved into a new phase, an excitement of beauty, strength and death. Maybe I was more than halfway there in understanding that birdwatching was about life?

And while my knowledge was pretty average, being alone in the bush watching birds gave that deeper insight into myself, as well as seeing something magic. When you sit still and watch a hawk glide, it's not so much the symbolism that's transferred to you, as in freedom, fierceness, power, but your spirit soars up there too. It is a sign that you are ready to receive signals from the universe. You may laugh, but just go and find a real birdo and ask him. I was three-quarters there.
56

_Dear vegetarian man,_

_We bring news of Herbie the goat. He slept in blankets, usually at the foot of our bed, and didn't like being left alone for too long and would often run after us, bleating all sad and lonely like. When we drove out to do some work, he would sometimes curl up in one of our blankets in the front of the ute; waiting. And he would greet us warmly. As he got older, his beautiful orange and black colours became glossy with a sleeky sheen. He was such a beautiful boy._

_One day, he went missing, and we feared hunters had somehow got him - we get plenty of these type of people out here - but he eventually came back to us - with a baby; another little Herb. He actually brought his baby back to show us. The little one, all sort of knobbly and wobbly, hid behind his father's legs, and how proud was our Herb! They both come and visit but mostly they run with the wild goats and pigs _(must warn the girls about that; ask them not to let Herbie go on holidays near the Warrego junction) _. Herbie has changed our lives because you showed us we must have compassion for all the wild animals, like you did when you brought him to us. We love our jillaroo work, very much, but because of Herb, we are considering going to uni to study vet science, or biology; we're not sure which. We'll see._

_Herb occasionally just stands and looks into the distance, his head held high. We reckon we know who he's looking for._

_Thanks again for bringing us such a beautiful gift,_

_From two girls and two goats._

Little Herb; what a man. I really missed sleeping with that little fellow more than the cygnets. My goodness that's it; no more killing animals; I'm done. A new direction; a life-change brought on by a goat.

Rosie hadn't answered my last letter and I felt nervous. What if she didn't love me anymore, or she had met someone else? Same thing, sort of almost. I suppose Melbourne had a few good-looking young men, nothing in my league of course, and so what if she had met one? Had we promised ourselves? Well not really but yes sort of; but it was only a, 'Oh, well, see you next time,' sort of loose arrangement, but it did have an unspoken knowing that not only would we meet again but we were meant for each other no matter how long we were apart. And because of this definite non-definiteness, it took away any niggles of jealousy or control or suspicions - all poisonous; or venomous.

_Hi melbourne rosie who used to be a barmaid but is now a student who is pining for me, you get my last letter or what? I am enjoying the marshes, again, I mean, there are other things besides the Darling River you know, and now we have had floods and the water birds are going bananas. Ibis rookeries, hundreds of thousands of birds, (would I exaggerate?) cormorants, white-faced herons, nankeen night herons, lacy egrets, and you know how I occasionally borrow things, well I now have in my possession some of their feathers for your next hat for that big race day in Melbourne. The birds didn't mind, I swear. Last week I also learnt how to identify birds off The Man. Tell you about him when I see you. And I still grow vegetables, stalk cats and read books, but each day there's a part of me that aint right. I close my eyes and see your beautiful smile, especially bright when you see me of course, and your laughter and how you enjoy things. Missing our quiet time together too. However, this is the new deal; either I'm coming down to see you or you are getting your cute bum up here. You choose because I am currently very rich and free and you're probably not either. Maybe one of us is cheap and easy? So what's it to be; Melbourne or the bush? Sign here...............You could tell me, just near that signature thing, that you love me, and stuff like that. Don't have to, just saying. You also didn't answer my question about babies. Hey Pritch, you're kidding right?_ _No, my sweet girl I weren't kidding. Holy smoke I love you Rosie, and I need you. Come and get me?_

Rosie wrote straight back this time. _Put the kettle on._ God I'm good. Couldn't help herself; I knew she loved me all along.

She arrived late at night, her car pulling in slowly over the gravel making a sound that cars make when they go slowly over gravel. She flopped into my arms and I carried her inside. Tired red eyes, toasty warm, legs all wobbly like a new foal. Or a new kid.

I poured her a hot cup of tea feeling all nervous again. Would this visit work? I talk to myself too much. Rosie saw the camp oven. 'Hey, I know that pot, what's in it this time?'

'Same thing as the Louth Motel. No blackmail this time though. You are __ staying.'

Rosie was exhausted from her long drive and we snuggled in bed. We were entwined in coils of love like two red-bellied black snakes. Love; the deepness, the beyond life of deepness. We didn't talk much, didn't have to, this was just a time for knowing you were loved and protected from the bad things in the world. This was safety and wanting to die for someone else. Home at last.
57

'I was nervous you coming up. You, a bit?'

'Nuh, no way. Don't get nervous. Yes alright, I was too. It's the time factor thing, not to mention the distance.'

'And in Melbourne, I was nervous too even though I said I wasn't. I lied. Sorry.'

'I knew anyway, can read you like a book, Pritch.'

We did take the boat out in the lagoons a couple of times. Rosie borrowed the bins and I thought, Huh, you beginner, give them here before you hurt yourself. Until, that is, she said, 'Ooo, look a greenshank. And, just over there, swooping real low. I reckon that is a whiskered tern.'

That'd be right; don't just start with a swan or a swamphen will you, no, you go right out there with the tricky ones.

'Suppose you'll be wanting the rifle soon?'

I swear she smirked.

I said, 'Saw a sign outside a pharmacy in Dubbo the other day. It said, "Open seven days." Hope I haven't missed that week, I need stuff.'

'I saw one, it said, "Keys cut here." How will I get in the front door?'

'If your name was Matthew and I cut your hair, well I would have a mattress.'

'What do you call a bi-sexual in Dubbo? Someone who likes sheep and goats.'

'Hey Rose.'

'Yes.'

'I love you, but I'm sort of hurting because I'm unsure where it's all gonna go.'

This belongingness thing, well perhaps I had been looking too hard. Maybe I have a wide belonging that settles like a black duck wherever it floods; in tea-tree forests, river banks or occasionally in towns. But there was a drought coming for this little duck, not one of those droughts like Australia must have. This little baby was a tremor that started in my chest, a pre-stomach rock, soon to move down where it sat like when mum died, and it vibrated like a corella's stiff wingbeat, fast and urgent, because _that_ time was coming. The time that would stretch the long fishing line that held us together. Would it be long enough? Breaking strain up to it? The bell for the final lap was ringing.

We hugged all that last day. It was deep and beautiful beyond beautiful, a full wrap around close warm hug full of love, with no holding back, and it was like our first night on the river; we clung for security and future memories and showing just how deep this thing was. We didn't have to be outside to be in that soft light that shone on us; it came looking for us, wanting to be a part of something special, and we tried to trap it inside the house and inside us. This was a drug, a wafty feeling that gave light-headedness and a view into other worlds, a view that would have severe withdrawals with no rehab clinics in sight. We both knew this would not be a good parting, not because of any tension, but because it may be final. Something inside me died that night; unable to be ever resuscitated.

Standing on top of the world seemed a long time ago; and I had just lost my balance. Back there in Louth, when Rosie went, I said that parting felt good. What would I know? Was it also me who also said he could just control his attitude to things and they would be different? Got that wrong in a big way too. I had, and still have, no idea what I am talking about.

When Rosie drove away, I had never felt such despair. I stared at the dust moving down the road for hours; maybe it was days, I can't recall. I howled and hollered and roared for the empty hole in my heart. Was this what love can do? Couldn't wait to learn more. Listen to your heart now had a meaning I could not deal with.

All those other times of feeling sorry for myself were nothing compared to this. Maybe it was good that I had experience of loneliness and being down because without it I don't think I would have pulled through. Thank god I had no access to drugs, alcohol or lollies, because there would surely have been an overdose, a binge, or an eye spin. I made little grunting noises; I forced little breaths out like when you blow a candle out. I was thrown against the wall, smashed into the boards, then forced to the floor into that curled up position, and I wailed, rasping for breath. For two days I lay there, quivering and drifted in and out of cold clouds of consciousness and I had hot flashes behind my eyes.

I woke up and apart from shaking all over like I had a fever, my ribs sticking to my backbone, and having the mother of all headaches; I felt calm. There was a focus in my head like when I was about to have my bones rearranged in that hotel in that Wilcannia pub. It felt like a freedom or a relief; hard to explain. I wasn't exactly bursting with happiness, but the world seemed peaceful and I was aware of little things. Probably starvation setting in and I would pass out any minute and all that would be found, after the meat ants finished, would be a curled up skeleton, like one you see in a National Geographic Magazine.

Is this how breakdowns travel? You crash quickly, have a crazy dream and then you're through? Surely I could stay on the floor, feel sorry for myself a bit longer? Get some attention; a little more sympathy? Not sure from whom, but never mind

When Rosie and I had parted all the other times, there was security or some idea of knowing where or when we would meet. This time I didn't think we would see one another ever again. It was all over and it seemed unbelievable. And Rosie wasn't going back to Peggy's place. She was moving in closer to uni to focus on her degree, and she went because we had our own lives and to remain true and whole to ourselves we had to do this. We both knew that if one gave up a life to live another it would end in pain. Well hello, what the hell was I going through now? Is one sort of pain, this particular one for example, better than another? Was Rosie hurting too? What if she drove away, punching the air and going, _Yess! I'm free!_ Maybe she was missing me just a little bit? And would write and tell me she couldn't live without me?

Next morning in the mirror, I saw a strange man. He was so rough looking he must have hit all the branches when he fell out of the ugly tree. He had red blotches, puffy eyes with black half-moon bags underneath, and a white pasty face. His shoulders were gaunt and facing forward, his upper arms emaciated, and he had a sunken chest and a pot belly.

Coffee, my substance of choice, had nothing for me. Addicts - you want to give up bad stuff? Don't worry about expensive and time-consuming scientific methods, cold-turkey or painful rehab, just have a mental breakdown, hit the floor and cleanliness is yours. Food not that exciting at the minute either. Like when I arrived at Menindee after Melbourne. I lost so much weight I had to run around in the shower to get wet.

I wandered about the house in a sort of orderly disorder; then repeated it. A loop of loopiness, a repeated repetition and a similar of sameness. And even though there was some calmness; it wasn't all over yet.

I started looking through the junk I had brought with me. I checked old diaries, dug through books, cuttings from newspapers, and photographs, like a ghost echidna. I rummaged, fossicked and searched, and resurfaced with mum and dad's wedding photo; taken in 1947. I stared at this photo, a sepia of ancientness, with stains and small rips, an image of innocence from another era, and I glided along with their special day, and then their future years together. I saw mum doing her housework, zipping around taking so much pride and joy in what she did; working hard for her family. The sacrifices from her dreams and the love and care she showed us were my favourite memories; the best wasn't the real food, not the open-cut mining on my foot to remove burrs, no, the best was the ear maintenance.

Mum would sit on the kitchen chair; I would kneel and lay my head sideways on her lap. Then as I told her all my secrets and admitted to things I didn't do or would ever likely do, she dipped a bobby-pin into my ear and dug out red clay, river stones and the occasional live animal. Very few kids admit this happened to them for fear of social ostracisation, and possible legal proceedings against their parents. Then mum would get a teaspoon of olive oil, heat it with a lighted match placed underneath, then pour it into my ear. It's an interesting sensation; sort of like watching a stranger through their window; pleasurable, but not right. She would then plug the ear with cotton wool and then do the other side. Nowdays, if you play with my ears or stroke my head I'll confess, tell you anything you want to know.

Mum would stop whatever it was she was doing, including the previous motherly duty, when her favourite song came on the wireless; _On the Wings of a Snow White Dove_ by Ferlin Husky. Her second favourite was anything from Peter, Paul, and Mary. I had fallen in love with Mary Travers, quite an easy thing to do I found, and mum loved _Day is Done_. I can visit mum any time by listening to her favourite songs. And then I cried because I missed her. She was a shy woman, a nervous timid girl who loved us kids. I bawled deep and long, remembering her laid out, sort of serene, her eyes closed in peace. I beat my fists on the floor and yelled and screamed; again. And now I could not deny the deep pain of whatever it was that had been paining me all those years simply by avoidance or rejection. There was nowhere to hide and I could scream as loudly as I wanted to, because no-one would hear me. I now needed forgiveness for something I had done and maybe something I should have done; like be a bit thankful for a wonderful mother who did her best.

Probably good no-one called in; would have been an interesting sight. _Oh hi Tony, why are you screaming and rolling around like a demented tortoise?_ So much for holding in feelings, for avoiding, for not confronting hurt, or emotions and stuff pushed into the back of my head. No wonder my neck was getting sore, tilting back like that. I was wrong; so wrong. Some tears are not only good; but necessary.
58

Breakdowns are fantastic; they should be on free-to-air television advertising channels alongside fitness machines, weight loss pills and blenders. Give it a go people, smash your myths; scream and yell loudly; tell your conscious you are sick and tired of being bossed around by your preconceived ideas and suppressed emotions. Pay now on your credit card and you will also receive a movie-pass and a set of steak knives.

I was starting to understand me. I was starting to belong to me. It was all about how I approach things; retrospectively, and preretrospectively. I'm claiming a patent on the second concept; I want the royalties. Attitude - the sleeping in the boat in the marshes and when the snakes tried to kill me just before Brewarrina - introduced me to it. Trilby affirmed it, and even though I had tried to after those times and couldn't quite manage it properly, this time I had nailed it - I had accepted myself. And was wondering what if I could do something for somebody else? I returned to mum and dad's wedding photo for guidance.

As I stared at the photo, another thing dawned on me. It was always in my thoughts and I didn't realise why. It was trying to remind me before; a little light, not bright, just in the background, wavering. It tried to be stronger when I found the Shangri-La place, but I didn't let it in enough because I was too focussed on myself. Never asking for anything in return, being a role model of good things, of laughter, of hard work, of family and of love - _my dad._ Holy hell, I was so stupid. He had done everything and he had made me what I am - though I'm sure there were times when he rolled his eyes and thought, _Hmm, that Skinny bloke's mind has gone AWOL_ - but he still stood by me. I had acceptance from him, I belonged with him, and I didn't even appreciate him; my dad. I felt angry at myself for being so ungrateful of his love. What had I done for him? Nothing, that's what; it was all take. So I wrote and told him things. A phone call wouldn't cut it, you can't just call and say, _Oh hi dad yeah it's me, your favourite son, thanks for stuff._ I wrote; and I know he read it lots because after he died and I was sorting all his stuff, I found the letter, all creased in a thousand different ways like a road map in a glove box.

_Hello dad, the skinny fellow here, I'm writing to tell you that I love you and to say how much I really appreciate all the things you have done for me. You took me fishing, came to all my football games, you told me about the Darling, and taught me stuff about pigeons and woodwork and cars, and you showed me honesty and how to do the right thing, and even after I had maybe done a few unright things, you were still there, and you let me find my own way. You are the best dad ever. I love you and hey see you in a little while._

I had watched pigeons with him, that philosophical undertaking that passed on the lore, so that my place in society might be forever full of profound wisdom and essential truths.

'Daad, my slab of bread has got holes in it. What shall I do?'

'Toss the holes to the pigeons.'

Why hadn't I thought of that? And birds. I owe dad for understanding the beauty of birds. Now there's something to leave your son; a way to see the universe. I glided with him to our fishing spots just out of town, we painted our little wooden boat, I heard him singing _Oh, yes, I'm the Great Pretender,_ as he sawed the end twelve inches off a length of four by two, which landed on my big toe, I heard his dad jokes, so lame, so predictable, so repetitive they hurt, but oh, always given with warmth and the joy of idiotic laughter. I felt like I had just woken up from a horrible nightmare and had one last chance to make amends; to look up and just see him, to see him listen as I poured my heart out.

Would have been nice to write to mum, too. She took little for herself; she was that 1950s mum who gave all for her family. Hers was the ultimate gift of giving. But being too late means just that.

Finally; I knew how to cry. I had learnt how to start being grateful and maybe show humility; well a little bit anyway. That how it works? You go to the dark first, and then you see the light? Come-on soul, arise from your slumber. Maybe there's an easier way, a shortcut, but I didn't know about it. And I still wasn't done yet. My mind was raw, open, and willing to listen; I was ready.
59

_The idea that every pilgrimage itself, and not its end point, is the spiritual goal has always been difficult to grasp._ Sheldon B. Kopp. Where was it you said you had been?

Books will sit there, waiting for you, I knew that. They just stay where you've left them, not because they can't move; they know if you are ready. I picked up Kopp; again. I had given some considerable time to this book back on the Barwon River; at least three minutes; and found that apart from the dodgy title, _If you meet the buddha on the road, kill him!_ it was too out there.

But now, as I read, I realised that I may need a slap. Kopp said that the journey itself, not on an inland river system in western New South Wales specifically, is the salvation, and not the end. And on this journey of everyday of life, if man _'...surrenders to his existence and stops with the needless self-questioning he will find enlightenment.'_ He says if we can get rid of the fear-based emotions, give up self-doubt then every challenge that you face (and hopefully win occasionally) provides the spiritual growth.

My goodness I am thick. Think I've hinted at that before. My learning of how I realised that attitude to life is a choice now became clearer. And the beauty of my old river on a daily basis, the river people and their pure hearts (even allowing for the couple of impurities), the adventures, the cold and the heat, and my Rosie, all experienced along the river, were also my learning, not just at the end in some final firecracker of enlightenment - often called a breakdown. It would have been a bit crowded, everyone all piled up there at the junction of the Anabranch and the Murray. I know this is how I thought before the trip started, and even though it was difficult to grasp now, I'm an intelligent young man you know, and I can change. And it's true that Questers are a little crazy, but surely it's a crazy that says, Okay, I am in turmoil, but I need acceptance just like everyone.

And anyway, does a quest, like along a river for example, ever have an end? An end that goes beyond physically dragging the boat out? One that builds on what was to what is and to what might be? Or do I need to go down the river again? Questers are never satisfied - they may see stuff, they may change and grow, but they are still insatiable searchers, cursed forever. But the blessings always outweigh the curse. The same committee that had noted that Kopp had lain idle also noted another book _Man's Search for Meaning_ by Victor Frankl. It had been given to me by my old footy mate when I spent the summer of 1976-77 in Dubbo. He had said, 'Read this baby; it will change your life.'

Of course hearing that means I will answer, 'Right.' If I may have needed a slap before, now was the time for a flogging.

I did flick through Frankl before and read about what he and the other prisoners went through in the concentration camps, and it was horrific, and that's the only section I read. But now, I discovered the second section that explained Frankl's approach to life and his psychotherapy. His insistence that our attitude to a situation can be chosen; that suffering may not be avoidable but we can choose our response to it; that we need to give love, love life and be responsible for the way we approach life; and that life is to be lived, not just contemplated. And there is the big one; life's meaning is individual and _'...not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment.'_

I could feel that peace was coming and so was clarity. Peace for the future and a clarity for the now, because life wasn't static and no matter what was sorted now, one had to keep seeking, learning and deciding. I cried out for Rosie, my love, my life, and yes she went from me but this was good because we both had to do this. It was a freedom that says, Our love is strong and maybe, one day...

I like dictionaries. I took an Oxford down the river and even in today's digital world, I rely on a large book that doubles as a doorstop, a spare slab for Krak de Chevaliers or a flat shiny stone to skim across the river in Dubbo (we were strong in the old days). This Australian Oxford Dictionary gives Redemption (its number two meaning) as _'mankind's deliverance from sin and damnation.'_ Even though this was a tad theologically bent for my liking, I was okay with its major presumptions because we choose meaning. I needed to apologise to my mate Peter and seek redemption because I ended up choosing to go alone down the Darling and I know it hurt him. I wanted to apologise and then I needed him to say, 'Yep, it's all cool.'

And why would he say that anyway? Was the apology for me or him?

Peter was coming up to come birdwatching in the marshes, and this time, well, this was it. I practised what I would say.

_Mate, I know I let you down badly and I'm not deserving of being called your mate. I went down the Darling by myself and I know I hurt you. And I am truly sorry. Every time I think of the old river, I think of my shame, how you should never let a mate down. I feel I am unworthy to you. I am so sorry, I want your forgiveness yet I don't beg for it. It will come from you and if it doesn't I will understand. I spoke to you a lot on the river - we shared the fish, the decisions on where to camp and books and our old Dubbo stuff. Anyway, I'm sorry._

But when faced with the time to deliver, could I do it? Peter and I are over fifty years as mates and we have done some dodgy things but we have also lifted ourselves from humble old West Dubbo with so much credit on our souls we both deserve a pat on the back and a free voucher for a pot of tea.

One day when we were kids, we questioned our integrity. We had stolen things and now here was a start of being honest and responsible; a turning point. We said, Was this how we were raised; to take from others? It just wasn't good enough, this stealing thing, and we would just have to change and be more dignified and true; do the right thing.

Our effort towards enlightenment was to knock on the door of the lady who was known to have the best apricots in a side street near Sandy Beach, and ask very politely if we could please have some. I think we may have changed our underpants and even combed our hair for that day. There's nothing like sound preparation.

'Yes of course you boys can have some. Could you pick the ripe ones? I use the green ones for jam. And thank you so much for your honesty. It's so nice to see such upstanding young people, so clean and nicely groomed too.'

Such absence of demands upon our quasi-righteousness suited our current exuberance, and as we polished our haloes and made to leave in the general direction of her heavily laden tree, she leaned forward and squinted over her glasses to check us out a little better. 'By the way,' she said, 'I do hope neither of you is Peter Porch.' It seemed that Peter not only came with a reputation, but at that particular moment of our attempted ammendingness, one of us two was indeed he. We did find it a little tricky to look at each other as we opened our palms out in astonishment, 'Phaw, him one of us? Don't think so, miss.'

And so we discovered that although being honest had material and sort-of personal benefits, it didn't necessarily mean you had to tell the truth. This in itself was as much of a revelation as the attempts at being thought of by the establishment as trustworthy. Under the apricot tree, we took turns asking each other the lady's question. I wonder how life would have turned out had she hunted us, because a lot was riding on this initial attempt at doing the right thing. Had she not been obliging to the efforts of two kids, the fruit growing regions of West Dubbo may never have been safe. They would have had to plough their trees under and build tall buildings to rent as public service offices. Perhaps civilisation itself may have been changed forever. Now they all could both rest easy, having been saved by a lady with a big heart.

Peter and I have told each other things we've not told anyone else. If you buy me beer I may tell you some of it; not sure. This time, as well as telling our tall stories, joking about and dreaming, I needed his forgiveness.

After a few day in the swamps, we were back in the old farmhouse, and I said, 'You see those reed-warblers? Such tricky little suckers. You did well to find their nest.'

'Aren't they just tricky? Hey, thanks for taking me through the northern marshes, it was incredible.'

And we went and had a meal or something - and I said nothing.

I had fallen to the floor, I had risen but I had folded. Peter went back to Dubbo and I stayed a bit longer by myself. I felt disappointed but told myself that we were alright, and what would an apology this late mean anyway?
60

A home town is supposed to give you safety; from physical harm and mental stress. It should be a place where your confidence is nurtured and you can develop your personality and beliefs. It should let you make decisions and learn how to accept the consequences. It should be a community of care, a place to store your memories as they really were. For all its faults, a home town should give of itself and this in turn should make the givee face himself. Dubbo had done all these things for me and now I packed my baggage and decided to run away; this time to Dubbo. I wondered if now I could capture the old Dubbo; the place where I was safe and warm.

I spent all of my time with dad, just hanging, doing nothing really. I think gratitude, or at least the initial realisations of it, changed my outlook. The world slowed down and I could just enjoy each day and feel the connection. A couple of mates, who weren't married, poor or henpecked, called in, _Hey pritch, coming out to the golf club, there's a live band and heaps of chicks._

Me? No thanks, just gonna stay home _._ And cook sausages with my dad and talk about pigeons and an old river.

It felt good to muck about with dad. His same old lame jokes that once had made me cringe, now made me laugh. And the more I laughed, the more he told them. And I even threw a few in. I still wasn't drinking but when dad said Hey let's go to the pub and have a Resch's, I was in. The froth around the empty glass, the Hey, did you spill that? the stories that flowed quicker than the beer. And I thought, my old man is a good bloke.

We went fishing; we tossed a line in and just sat. And at first there was no talking, and you know what, we didn't need to. Communication came from our individual thoughts that were projected onto the sky that the other could read. It was like staring at a little campfire; or an imaginary coffee morning. Dad showed me some new fishing knots, and I showed him how you would tie up a houseboat so you wouldn't get slammed into a black box tree. I said, 'You remember the story about Terry Rose and a boar you once told me...'

'Once?'

'...about how he shot the pig that was about to kill you?'

'Hmmm, I do seem to remember that.'

'I was saved by a man, last name of Rose, who did something similar.'

'Were you scared?'

'Well...'

Well nothing. I knew what I was doing here; I was accepting my dad as he was, and by doing that, I was starting to accept me.

I was still vacant in the head because I was missing Rosie, and I walked around with my mouth open and dribble sliding down my chin, which may not have been conducive to starting, building or consolidating new relationships. All that I used to get up to, the partying and the bravado rubbish, while once being a load of fun, now seemed shallow and meaningless. The footy mate, who had tried to enlighten me about life and love showed consideration and understanding when I told him about Rosie. 'Shoulda hung onto that one, tried to tell you what it was like.' __ And even though what he said was true, it was not particularly helpful, so I changed the subject.

'Read a great book just the other day. It was about the meaning of life. By a bloke called Frankl.'

He was quick, 'Hey! It was me told you about him.' He looked down, chewed his lip, and muttered, 'That's where it got to.' Probably thinking about how many apologies he'd have to give because he'd blamed others for not giving back his book.

Then he looked up, list completed, 'So on this river trip, did you find stuff out?'

'Sort of made a start, I suppose. It seemed to happen after the trip, which is what I thought would happen, but then, as I thought about it after, I realised that it had all happened because of the during.'

'Nothing's changed; you still make sense.'

What could I say? About how I had a meltdown and realised that I had been a conceited whining self-indulgent pain? And had realised that keeping stuff bottled up doesn't always work? And that searching and striving for something, a something at the end, wasn't the only way to explore life?

He knew - 'That bad?'

I nodded. 'Basically I fell in a heap and my mind went crazy for a bit. I realised I wasn't a nice person, and that I was selfish and ungrateful.'

'Could have told you all that for free before you left.' I punched him on the arm. He didn't flinch. 'Best you got? Hey come around for tea, Sandra wants to talk with you about something pretty special.'

'Ha; it's me she loves after all.'

As I walked in, Sandra rushed over, and gave me the biggest hug ever invented. 'Ohhh, I feel for you. I'm sorry it didn't work out. I heard all about your true love.'

'Yeah, thanks hon. I suppose life does that.'

'Tony, I need to ask you something.'

About now, I wondered was the door unlocked. Sandra leaned in close and said, 'I'm pregnant.'

For a moment there was great concern in the camp involving some speedy maths. She continued, 'Will you be godfather?'

'What? You want me to do stuff as a Christian? Are you guys nuts? Me, as a spiritual guide to your kid? I suppose I could show her how to drink beer, and if you both cark it I suppose I could find a good orphanage...' She punched me on the arm. 'Oww, he told you to do that didn't he?' I made a pause, always wanted to do that, but could never justify it because I never felt that special; a pause perhaps a little longer than one would make when discussing a blue boar; a pregnant pause. 'Well, can I say, this godfather thing, well, I'd really be honoured you know.'

Sandra gave me another big hug, a real wrap around warm I love you hug. 'Come around anytime.' She looked across, 'And he doesn't have to be here,' and she winked at him. 'Come-on, let's go eat. I cooked your favourite; fish fingers.'
61

Dubbo and I lasted for two and a half weeks. I didn't blame Dubbo; not this time. Even though we had kissed and made up, I still needed to leave. Yet I am proud to say, 'Yes, I was born and raised in West Dubbo.' So get that into you.

I kept running and this time headed for the rainforest; the lush green vegetation and crystal clear streams in a place called Christmas Creek, where the rushing-water floods left you stranded, dingoes howled, lyrebirds lyred and platypuses played. I lived in a pigsty for two years while I built a house next to this wilderness. And stayed for fourteen years. It was brilliant, it was peaceful; but deep down an old river flowed.

And so it became 1989, I was married, had a couple of kids, and at that time things were not so good. Before I was married, I had written to Rosie care of Peggy, and secretly hoped her reply would force me to face me somehow. But no reply came. And I wondered how can you carry a light and expect this light to be forever on; me I'm talking about, not Rosie. How can you keep seeing a torchlight when life has moved on and light comes from a new place? I found out that the torch doesn't go out completely; it just waits in the cupboard, sort of dull in the darkness like a tiger's yellow eyes in a cave, to have its batteries recharged. These days you can get solar powered torches so the torch can be left outside and remain charged all the time. Moral of the story? True love only lasts if you're off the grid; and it's sunny.

There are times when life says, Hmm, we (it's always we isn't it) think that perhaps you need a wee reminder that we are still boss. And the reminder I received was from a place far away.

_Oh my sweet man what have we done? If only we had stayed together. I didn't answer that letter you wrote via Peggy. I didn't want to. Bad mistake Rosie, who knows what would have happened had you written back to that man. Anyway, I got married, still am, but I'm not happy. I finished university, I did it, it was really tough, I worked really hard, sometimes not much sleep, and I have been successful - done lectures and have written a book; but they don't mean much because we aren't together. Without your love it just becomes stuff. I was trying to live without you; not very well it seems. I realise now that I can't be without you._

_I have two little kids. The older one, well all he does is go birdwatching. When he was a little boy I bought him a pair of toy binoculars. The little bugger even slept with them. Now he doesn't seem interested in any other boy things; he just talks about birds. I couldn't answer that question of yours about having babies with you. Because maybe that's what I always truly wanted too and somehow I couldn't bring myself to tell you before because, oh I don't know why. I am not happy here, there's something missing. It's a man I met on a river who loved me like I have never been loved. God I miss you. The pain of leaving you that time in the marshes just about did my head in. I had to pull over several times I was sobbing so much. I now realise that our love was true, somewhat crazy (you anyway, I'm quite okay thanks for asking, and I am not weird), but so deep. You loved me no matter what and you didn't care when I told you I was adopted and couldn't find where I came from, or find my parents, or that I had a nose like an eagle; it was just me you wanted. We are the same you said that at Louth. You were right (not as often as me though). I can never love like we did. I am not happy, said that, and when I see a photo of the Darling River, or I touch that little present you gave me in Melbourne, which I think you borrowed from a gift shop, good on you, I think of you, so strong and so kind. And you spoke up for me in Wilcannia, me, your lost barmaid, hell I was scared for you then. Nice when we were alone; wouldn't mind it again. Anytime pritch, anytime. You also said I smelt like a baby galah which was really sweet. I think we will be connected, forever. Pritch, right now I am hurting, I am dying because I need you. Come and get me? Your Rosie._

When I read Rosie's letter, and headed for the fire to toss the envelope in, because I was scared of what I would do if I kept her address, the darkness came back. I was smashed against the wall again and it broke my wings which after having moulted back at the marshes house were beginning to sprout nice primaries. I shivered and I cried. I thought I was over Rosie, and that does sound horrible, but you know what I mean, tell me you do. I was shaking from an emptiness and a longing; a loneliness but mainly from an ache for something I once had, let go and was about to let go again. __ I had been loved, I had been accepted, and my prayers for belonging had been answered by this beautiful girl. I listened but I didn't hear. I was again empty, hollow and confused. Sort of back to normal. So what do I do, leave my little kids and go to Rosie? And ruin two families into the bargain? It was that change of heart at that bloody apricot tree that ruined me. _Oh thank you boys, you are so honest and good._ Leave me alone, I don't want to be good. I was perfectly happy when I was headed for a decent life of petty crime, lies, and good old-fashioned dishonesty. Wouldn't have had to own up to shooting O'Readon's pigs either. Could have snuck past, no trouble. Breaking into houses? Easy. Wonder what I would have done next? __ Deserted a family?

For not going to her, I will be damned forever, I know that. I closed my eyes. _Hey Rosie my sweet, I can't come. But I know that soft yellow light is still shining on us, love from your Darling River boy; forever._ Oh someone, take me now and do it quickly will you, because I can't cope with the pain of being away from her. Having kids with Rosie; that would have been a beautiful thing. Her kid with binoculars? She was kidding me, right? What we had was indeed a crazy intense love but I know it is no more and I won't write to her. This is one time for not going back. If you have loved then leave it be. I read that somewhere.

'Hoi you with the gorgeous eyes, want to stay in a motel with me?'

'Hey river boy, I'd love to.'

Why do I cry when I read that? I know what the first true kiss means, and _Nunc scio quid sit amor;_ now I know what true love is. Rosie, I kiss you goodbye but I hold onto what we had. I love you.
**Epilogue**

_For the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth - that Love is the ultimate and highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love._

_Man's Search for Meaning_ by Viktor E. Frankl

It's coming up forty years since I first drifted down the Darling and I have carried the experience through several career changes, a divorce, a new marriage and some extra children; and the old river means just the same. I retired from school teaching to see if I could write about a river trip and what it meant to me; and here it is. I have spent my super, I am poor and I don't care

Dad died many years ago and it belted me for six; and I missed saying goodbye. So there was, and will be, times when I find it hard to cope. And how was I handling things right now? Fair to middling and life goes on. It must, otherwise I would still be on the floor in that house next to the Macquarie Marshes looking for another sheet of bubble wrap. Which would not be as good as a hot shower and a cold beer, or a dad who is there for you. My current mental state is probably a B+. _'With greater application Pritchard can do better.'_

In 1976, I ran away to drift down the Darling River to look for adventure; well my goodness I got it. And it went beyond action scenarios of vicious animals, hailstorms or extreme fishing because the best adventure was its simplicity. Each bend of the river was different, and you may dispute that if you have seen the Darling River because it does look similar; all-the-way-down. But I say, do not speak too loudly; the spirits might hear you.

I also ran away to the Darling to look for a place to belong. That now seems like a lifetime ago. The one physical place to belong has come up empty. I'm in Brisbane and it has got its good points, but it lacks my history. Yet to live in Dubbo where my story is, doesn't come up as number one on my list. Israel, and the other middle eastern countries I have travelled in, while being extraordinary are a tad unsafe at the minute. London is out; too grey. Somewhere on the Darling? I don't know. But I do know that if I don't look at, swim in and drink of, the old river at least once a year I need extra meds, a back rub and access to cold beer. Belonging in love? Oh yes. Now there was a life changer. Because everyone is complete when they love; because love is what keeps us all connected. Just like Frankl said. I did begin to accept myself - perhaps the biggest belonging I craved. Right there under my nose all the time.

If you drink water out of the Darling, you'll always go back. It will be your second home. Well it couldn't be your first if you had to keep going back now would it. Since the 1970s, I have drunk plenty of water from the Darling. In 2010, I paddled a canoe from Menindee to Wentworth on a low river. A canoe draws no water, in fact when you put a canoe on the water you get credit. I saw God twice because I was ready. The universal God; the one who waits until you are at peace with yourself. Why didn't someone tell me about this? I would have listened.

In early 2011, I again paddled from Menindee to Wentworth; this time I rode a flood. My beloved sandy beaches were underwater and I had to introduce myself to the outside bends; a dangerous proposition. Bulldog ants replaced feral pigs as the greatest danger on the Darling. Those mobile chainsaws with a sting are relentless. They will attack using military strategies T. E. Lawrence would be proud of. They will disable your boat; then either stalk you or surround you. If you ever stagger out of your tent at daybreak and see the formations, ready, you may as well swallow that little coloured pill that's sewn into your coat lining. Seriously, this is not a tall story to be used to frighten Americans. Though it could be.

In 2012, I paddled from Menindee to Wentworth (the canoe finds its way without me participating) and rode the release of 7,000 ML a day from Menindee Lakes. The Year of the Water Rat. I came home to Brisbane via Dubbo and called in to see my mate, Peter Porch on his sheep farm. And I said sorry. I did it. And he said, 'You and me, we're good.' Sometimes you meet someone bigger than yourself.

In 2013, I paddled from Louth to Wilcannia on a low river and found some memories. The Louth Hotel made me chuckle and thank goodness no-one recognised me; and I got into an argument with an old bloke about eating carp. At Tilpa, I tied the canoe up under the bridge and walked up the bank to the Tilpa Hotel. Hey Fred, where are you? In the shade of the verandah at 11 a.m., it was 96 degrees. Thought it was a bit warm that morning lugging my stuff around the weir. And I refound the place called Shangri-La; and it was as it was before. I spent some time in Wilcannia, and met Gaye Nicholls the mail lady; a beautiful person who has found the universe. This trip had magic, this trip I did things I said I would never do again (yep - pigs and snakes again). The year of the white-breasted sea eagle - hundreds of them.

In 2014, the Year of the black cormorant and Murray cod (a shared award), I paddled from Wilcannia to Pooncarie. Greg and Lily from Nelia Gaari - thank you. Menindee people you are so gracious, so beautiful, that when I left I just knew the mad, crazy world would never get me. Barb at Bindara, you are indeed wonderful and live life by giving love and niceness. Col in Pooncarie, you have such a generous heart. The cod were moving so well all you had to do was unroll a line and one would be on the bank beside you. My beloved river below Menindee was heaven; it was low it was milky and I loved it. I saw buzzards, little eagles and pied cormorants. I stared at little campfires and I contemplated everything that was in my life. I saw music and stars and thought I was complete.

All that I have experienced on the Darling can never be taken away. And even though I had learned some things about life, the quest is not over. The old river won't leave me alone. Even though it is drying up, (2015) I am currently planning another trip. This is a detailed task, this planning thing; all done on the back of an envelope like Eric Shipton showed me in 1974. Plan a) is to check out the Macintyre (the actual upper Darling) below Goondiwindi; plan b) is Bourke to Louth. Who knows.

A little while back, an interviewer from a radio station had asked me, _I have some personal questions; do you think you're the normal one and the rest of us are out of whack?_ Yes of course I'm normal; but it's my version. The rest of you talk among yourselves for a while. _Didn't you get sick of camping on a riverbank, all-the-time? The funny coloured river, the mosquitoes, and all that mud?_ Absolutely. The easiest question of all he put to me was, _What did you do each day?_ Just drifted down a river; that's what I did each day.

The Darling River, my river; will always be my river.
**Acknowledgements**

To mum and dad - thank you for the love and the support.

To my editor Laurel Cohn - you guided and supported.

IndieMosh Publishers - Ally Mosher, your advice was inspirational.

To my wife Evonne - Couldn't have done it without you

To the traditional owners, past and present - thank you for letting me travel on your river.

To the station people of the western rivers, you gave me permission to camp, even if you didn't know about it most times, and although I sometimes felt nervous about this camping, it was my insecurity not yours. Your kindness and generosity is saintly and the world will be a better place when it recognises and embraces the beauty of your giving. And I know the seventies were one of those golden ages, with wet years of prosperity and a slower pace of life but still in this current digital age, in which the rivers are more political, and the world has done itself a disservice at times with its social attitudes, deceitful politics and expensive beer, you lovely people on the rivers are still the same - thank you.

To the blokes I met on the rivers; you have a way of communicating that should be recorded and incorporated into the English Syllabus of every education system on the planet. You epitomise the blokiness of Australia; you are tallies instead of three hundred and thirty millilitre bottles; you are sweat and blue singlets instead of an ironed shirt and perfumed deodorant, thank goodness; you are manly, and you are gentleness unbounded. Most of your stories are based on wishful thinking, with little evidence of truth; events are usually glorified, as males like to sound better than they really are, and the world should have no problem with this. It is valuable self-belief, mateship, and a healthy sign that society is on track. It is survival, respect for all people, and a ton of fun. How could it be otherwise? Why would you want it to be is what I really mean.

To the women of the rivers; you stand alone in the Universe. Your love of other women is extraordinary, your love of your children pure, and your love of maleness accepting and strong. You are independent, hard-working, adorable, and your eternal beauty will forever grace our inland rivers, and I suspect far beyond. Me writing that is going to cost you.

Murray Darling Basin Authority - always you said, How can we help you with maps?

Gillian Hogendyk for permission to use information, including a map, on the Macquarie Marshes in _The Macquarie Marshes - an Ecological History _Institute of Public Affairs Occasional Paper, September 2007

D. Green, J. Petrovic, P. Moss and M. Burrell for permission to quote from _Water resources and management overview: Macquarie-Bogan catchment,_ (2011) NSW Office of Water, Sydney.

Harry Butler said '..yes, use my name...Keep caring! It is still our only world.' Thank you for writing Harry. A letter I will always treasure.

Bill Bryson said good luck with the book. His snake advice is from _In a Sunburned Country_ 2001 Broadway Books New York

Barry and Dawn Lamph of Warren. Would not have got through the northern marshes without you both; the horse rides, the practical advice and the tomato relish. You let me be a part of your family. Here's some new stuff - The Macquarie Marshes are currently a Ramsar-listed Nature Reserve, "... _Principally managed for its important wetland features, this nature reserve does not cater for day-visitors, or campers. Access is restricted to management and research personnel. However, when conditions are suitable, the NPWS runs guided activities around the reserve."_ Office of Environment and Heritage New South Wales National Parks and Wildlife Service.

<http://www.environment.nsw.gov.au/nationalparks/parkHome.aspx?id=N0449>

Bob Palazzi. You spent so much time with me, with cameras and stuff, and patiently explained and then re-explained, several times, what an F-Stop was.

Graham White. Your mud maps of the Southern Marshes gave me confidence and your passion for the Marshes still moves me.

Wilcox family of Brewarrina. You saved me. Happy birthday Paul. I know exactly how old you are.

Jim Neal of Brewarrina. I called hearts on nothing; but you had a big one Jim.

Les Pearce - the greatest coach for the greatest game.

Bruce Pascoe - for permission to use information in _Dark Emu black seeds: agriculture or accident?_ 2014 Magabala Books: Broome

Peter Dargin - permission to use information from _Aboriginal Fisheries of the Darling-Barwon Rivers_ 1976 Brewarrina Historical Society.

Vern and Judith Kesby of Brewarrina. Thanks for looking after me. Your dogs were characters.

_Man's Search for Meaning_ 2006 Beacon Press by Viktor E. Frankl. This is a special book. Thank you Franz J. Vesely for permission to quote.

T.E.Lawrence - an astounding man. _The Letters of T.E.Lawrence_ 1938 Jonathan Cape

Peter Porch, West Dubbo boy. Our list is long. We have done stuff. Thank you mate.

Paul Ivers, West Dubbo boy. The books, the talks, and the tin trunks for my boat and the specifically tailored advice; i.e., "Use what little tools you've got with what little brains you've got." __ Thanks to you and to Peter Porch for the lift out past Warren for the start of the river trip.

The quote about how male Eastern Grey Kangaroos fight is from S. Van Dyck and R. Strahan's _The Mammals of Australia Third Edition_ (2008) Queensland Museum, Reed New Holland, on page 337.

Project Gutenberg Australia has journals of Australian explorers as ebooks available free.

<http://gutenberg.net.au/explorers-journals.html>

The Geographical Names Board of New South Wales confirmed where the Darling River officially starts - "...at the confluence of the Culgoa and Barwon Rivers about 39km ENE of Bourke..." This was assigned on the 15 May 1970 - reference 16064

I phoned Dr Mary E White, authoress of _After the Greening_ : _The Browning of Australia_ (1994) Kangaroo Press, and she said yes I could use information on Lake Bungunnia and Eromanga Sea.

Andrew Hull, the Bourke poet. Check his website or go to Bourke and hear the man at Poetry on a Plate at Kidman's Camp. _My Darling_ is a fantastic poem - full of love full of the deep spirituality found along the old river. Thank you Andrew.

<http://hullyjoe.com/andrew-hull/performances/my-darling/>

_Henry Lawson: A Stranger on the Darling_ by Robyn Lee Burrows and Alan Barton 1997 Harper Collins. This gives an account of Lawson's time in and Bourke in 1892-93.

O'Readon from near the Warrego junction. You were forgiveness and I am truly sorry about those pigs.

_The Selected Poetry and Prose of Shelley_ Wordsworth Poetry Library 2002 has the quote about love on page 642.

Sheila Hole of Trilby. I know you are not with us, but to any of your family out there, what a truly beautiful person she was. I asked Sheila why the property was called Trilby, and she said her father had read the novel _Trilby,_ and liked the book so much he named one of his paddocks Trilby. And Sheila then named her place after that paddock. Sheila's brother was Barney Murray from Dunlop Station and we talked about the history of that station.

Fred Davidson of Tilpa. My heaven, has there been a better human being on the planet? Fred you were a larrikin, and the world needs people like you. You had a golden heart, a generous spirit, and you lived next to the Darling. I used an article for extra information about Fred written by Daniel Lewis and published by the Sydney Morning Herald on 28 August 1976. I have never in my life, ever, been accepted and welcomed more than in Tilpa. Not even in Dubbo. Don't let that last bit worry you Tilpa. I cannot name everyone who took me in at Tilpa and I am sorry I didn't mean to exclude any of you.

To the man who didn't dob when I broke into his house - you are a treasure. I didn't take much, I swear.

Ted Marr of Mt Murchison. Thank you so much for the welcome and your stories. I liked how you cooked yellowbelly.

The crew of the Balmain Bullet. What about a reunion in Wilcannia?

Norm Edwards from Pamamaroo. You were such a wonderful man; so genuine, generous and honest. Your history was pretty amazing too, being Tarzan and all. Thank you for the advice about getting around the dam wall.

Carol Eglinton, Postmistress at Menindee. Thank you Carol for helping me in 1977, 1978, 2010, 2011 and 2012.

John and Kath Eveleigh. I am so knocking on your door again. Thanks for Kinchega.

Dave Phoenix's website on Burke and Wills is comprehensive. Thank you for permission to use information. <http://www.burkeandwills.net.au>

To Ian Fraser and Jeannie Gray, the authors of _Australian Bird Names: A Complete Guide_ published by CSIRO Publishing in 2013 (<http://www.publish.csiro.au/pid/6833.htm> I thank you for permission to use your information about the cockatiel's genus being _nymphicus._ The poetic licence I used in its meaning is from Lempriere's _Classical Dictionary_ _for public and private schools of both sexes_ by E. H. Barker. Printed by A. J. Valpy (possibly an 1833 copy).

Michael Morcombe's Field Guide to Australian Birds (2003). Steve Parish Publishing, Brisbane. An excellent field guide.

Tom and Dot Guscott. Dot, you're a gem. Please keep writing to me. Life changes some things but aren't we the same always? Goodbye to you Tom, you solid man, you sailor, you gentleman.

Jeanette Hope of Wentworth gave me fantastic information on the Darling and Great Anabranch of the Darling River, as did Matthew Cupper of Melbourne, Alan Reid from Geoscience Australia, and Stephen Moore and Tania Midgley who compiled and edited the _Menindee Lakes Ecologically Sustainable Development Project.._

Doug Thompson from the Anabranch. It seemed so easy to watch you and think, _I could do that_ , or _, I could be as calm and accepting as him_ , but man, you have got something extraordinary. It's more than self-belief, it's something from somewhere else. And you believed in me; thank you for that.

Cunninghams of Nindethana. You inspired me to dream beyond the day; to believe in things and be connected. And you introduced me to them other weird people.

Peter and Judy Harris - the other weird people. The humour, the cups of tea, and the talks, always the talks. Be lost without you both. Thanks Andrew. And thank you Peter for the cover design, the posters and the flyers. Perfect.

Don and Julie Baird of the Wentworth Post office. The United Nations needs you.

Bob Bonner from Lock 9 on the Murray River - thank you. This is where I finished and you were fantastic. Thanks for looking after my boat too.

Thomas Harty - my mate from kibbutz Ginosar. Next time you're over, I'll take you to West Dubbo.

_If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him_ by Sheldon B. Kopp 1976 Bantam Books

Matey and Julie-Ann Lamph - thank you for the house.

Alan K. Morris. Thank you for coming over to stay in the house next to the marshes. You are the best birdwatcher I have ever met.

Rosie - forever my gorgeous Rosie.
