 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Disclaimer

Map

First bit

PART 1: 2013 - Louth to Wilcannia

PART 2: 2014 - Wilcannia to Pooncarie

PART 3: 2015 - Macintyre River

PART 4: 2015 - Bourke to Louth

PART 5: 2016 - Louth to Tilpa

PART 6: 2016 - Hungerford to Wanaaring on the Paroo River

PART 7: 2017 - Menindee to Pooncarie

PART 8: 2017 - Bourke to Louth

Last bit

Acknowledgements

Also by Tony Pritchard

Copyright statement
CANOEING

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

<https://www.indiemosh.com.au/>

Copyright 2018 © Tony Pritchard

All rights reserved

**Licence Notes**

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and publisher.

**Disclaimer**

Although the author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.
Disclaimer

Man calls across the river to another man. 'How do I get to the other side?' Man #2, 'You are already on the other side.'

This is an indication of what you will get if you read further. It will be a cross between mental disintegration, a quick hundred before lunch and a lost slipper coming home from the ball.

This book is my version of events from 2013 through to 2017, canoeing on the Darling, the Macintyre and the Paroo Rivers. My recollections are totally accurate, and I can vouch for this with facts, figures and post-dated diary entries. I have also made a super-human effort (with not considerable expense, I might add) to contact all those whom I have spoken politely of, slandered or suggested personal improvements to, in order to obtain their permission. To those people, assorted species of wildlife and inanimate objects who gave permission, I thank you deeply. Those who chose not to respond to my heartfelt request may be surprised to discover that I talked about them anyway. I did ask. And if we came across one another, and I didn't mention that we shared a beer or a billy of tea, I am truly sorry. Next time.

Locations in these stories will not be shrouded in anything, place names are usually kept the same, and not too many animals were harmed during the research process. Basically, nothing in this book could be considered as expert advice.

If you read bits that you disagree with or are offended by, well, I have no control over your efforts to not be a part of a society that promotes love, honesty and kindness. That's right, your dodgy decisions, particularly if you vote conservative, watch reality television or eat lollies, are yours and yours alone. Good luck when the revolution comes.

If you buy this book and don't like it, send it to me. And I'll send you one I don't like.

Map by Ally Mosher at allymosher.com   
from a map supplied under a Creative Commons licence by the Murray-Darling Basin Authority.

# First bit

The man who invented fairy-bread died. Hundreds and thousands are expected at his funeral.

Dad jokes are intelligent, witty, and they deliver.

This is the story of eight canoe trips on inland waterways in western New South Wales. There were six on the Darling River, one on the Macintyre River and one on the Paroo River.

Trip 1. 2013-Louth to Wilcannia on the magical Darling River.

Trip 2. 2014-Wilcannia to Pooncarie on the magnificent Darling River.

Trip 3. 2015-On the loggy boggy Macintyre River below Goondiwindi.

Trip 4. 2015-Bourke to Louth on the majestic Darling River.

Trip 5. 2016-Louth to Tilpa on the muddy Darling River.

Trip 6. 2016-Hungerford to Wanaaring on the misleading Paroo River.

Trip 7. 2017-Menindee to Pooncarie on the mighty Darling River.

Trip 8. 2017-Bourke to Louth on the incredible Darling River.

These trips were in addition to five others on the Darling - the entire Darling in 1976-77, Tilpa to Wilcannia in 1978, and Menindee to Wentworth in 2010, 2011 and 2012 - which have been written about in _Drifting down the Darling_ and _Paddling down the Darling_. It would appear that I may not be aware that there are other places to travel to, and while this does have some truth, since I returned from Europe and London via a kibbutz in the seventies, I have been to a further dozen countries. Not to mention several exciting locations around Australia. And yet, the Darling River is still the best place on the planet.

Trip 1. 2013

This was my third year of retirement from teaching and even though the money was running out like water through a bucket without a bottom, and there's nothing worse than having no bottom (think bike riders - gorgeous legs but no arse), I went to the river. I paddled from Louth to Wilcannia on a low river with some pushing and pulling and had a great time. I caught lots of fat tasty fish, I slept in the dirt and I smelt the earth. Cath and Dave Marett of Shindy's Inn in Louth were generous with their support.

At home in Brisbane I had been working on a book about my seventies trip down the Darling. I had given myself five years to finish it, but I wasn't so sure if I'd make it, especially being a beginner writer. Not to mention taking time off to paddle down a river each year.

Trip 2. 2014

I started below Wilcannia at Nelia Gaari station and paddled through Menindee and on to Pooncarie. And as usual, this old river was full of surprises. These surprises were the results of a drought, which in this neck of the woods equated to dry lagoons, limited water birds and a green river. Not a particularly healthy green, I might add.

Then, below Menindee, my old river came back to me. The one that was not clear, was not muddy, but was made from milky tea. I was home. And apart from inner fulfilment, the deep satisfaction of being where I wanted to be, there was another bonus. Murray cod.

On our inland rivers there is one word that incites, excites and unites. This word also has great insight and foresight and leads to great appetite. That one word is murray cod - okay, that's two. In June 2017 I did a talk at the Brewarrina fishing competition weigh-in and those words naturally cropped up. I hereby let it be known that people involved in a fishing competition don't ask, 'Now, what did you do on the river?' or, 'By the way river boy, what are you doing later?' ('Usually falling asleep as it gets dark. Why? You know a book I should read?'). No, they only have one question, 'You catch any murray cod or what?'

Indeed, I caught murray cod, as I did on all my trips, but in 2014 I have never seen them so willing to be on top of my grill plate and be the main subject in my tall stories. Cod bite hard, real hard. And you will know, right there, that when that happens, there's a big chance that your dreams and your children's dreams are about to come true.

Even if you don't have any.

Trip 3. 2015

A river with a few log jams is okay. A river with hundreds of log jams is not so, and in the first canoe trip of 2015, things were not okay. Below Goondiwindi (which is on the New South Wales-Queensland border) the Macintyre River flows roughly south-westish (to eventually change its name to the Barwon then to the Darling). It is a robust river, not too narrow, not too wide; it is just right. If I were a yellow-haired girl, I would have appreciated the Macintyre River. But the Macintyre became the house with three annoyed bears.

The slightly-used porridge, chairs and beds appeared as logs and branches. They lay across the river in a natural barrier, and the choices were over, through or around. Or, if I wasn't careful, under. A canoe in an open waterway is a peach, sweet and juicy, but when you come across a log jam it becomes the rough end of a pineapple.

Sometimes I could push the canoe over or squeeze through the branches, but this had its dangers. A canoe in a fast-flowing deep river blocked by branches can equal disaster. Because if you get a piece of clothing caught as you push and grunt around a log jam, then it's lights out. I took my clothes off, I was blue from the cold, I looked fat and pudgy, but hey, I'm still alive. So don't be rude.

Whole trees across the river with no way over or through meant a portage. Only a short one for sure, but when there is slippery, steep, deep mud for a couple of metres above the water line because of a sudden river drop, it tends to take the fun out of pretending to be a voyageur. And I'll bet London to a brick that not many voyageurs had a brand-new steel knee.

Inappropriate social rule-breaking in the form of trespass can lead to feelings of emotional hurt in those you have wronged, and the bears were correct to be annoyed. Lucky Goldilocks wasn't eaten.

Trip 4. 2015

I escaped the bears' house, drove to Bourke then paddled to Louth, but I didn't quite make it. After I untangled myself from the thick azolla weed that squeezed, strangled and choked anything on the river, including me, I went home and had my book published about the 1970s Darling adventure ( _Drifting down the Darling_ ).

Trip 5. 2016

I paddled from Louth to Tilpa on liquid chocolate surrounded by an Irish green countryside. The perfect after-dinner mint of melted dreams in a verdant year. The coffee was an invite to the Bourke Festival of a Thousand Stories to do a meet-the-author talk. Which I drank.

Trip 6. 2016

And because the winter of 2016 in western New South Wales was a wet one - and that is an understatement - I took advantage and paddled on the Paroo River in far western New South Wales. This river occasionally makes its way to the Darling just above Wilcannia, but not that often and not this time. It is a shallow, multi-channelled waterway, and one that does not understand compass-points, sit easy with maps, or act like a normal river. It was an individual who used its middle finger well and often.

Trip 7. 2017

There were about 6,000 reasons voiced to me from me why I shouldn't go to the Darling in April 2017, and only one that said, _Go_. But this voice did not come from me; it was from a previous life, and it said, 'Go to the old river.' And because a one in the unit's column is easier to understand than six in the thousand's column, I went.

Thanks dad.

Book #2 _(Paddling down the Darling)_ was now published, and Steve and Anne Hederics of Wentworth were kind enough to let me do a meet-the-author evening in their Artback Café. Then I drove to Menindee and paddled to Pooncarie. This was the fifth time I would be on this same section of river and I was on first-name basis with every bird and animal and I didn't need to use the white pages, yellow pages or animalcestry.com for verification.

Trip 8. 2017

In September 2017, I did a second meet-the-author talk at the Bourke Festival of a Thousand Stories, then paddled from Bourke to Louth. Got all the way this time. And on that trip, something weird happened. I considered making a major decision. This almost-made decision, still in its thought stage, was one of those whoppers that when you admit it to yourself, regardless of an inability for rational thought because you stupidly believe that you are the only person left in the world, releases something profound, something life-changing, and personally universal in a societal I-love-people way. Don't worry, I'm confused too.

I was thinking; what if I never came back to the Darling? And I thought this because I was so happy.

I'm still confused too.

A summary of the First bit

If door does not open, do not enter.

Could try the window.

Each year I was on the river, it was the Year of something:

2013-white-breasted sea eagle

2014-murray cod and little black cormorant

2015a-logs across the river

2015b-azolla

2016a- green fields

2016b-crazy channels

2017a-I shouldn't have been there.

2017b-turtle

These Somethings were either chosen for their quirkiness, difficulty, or as a seasonal abundance. Or a combination, plus a few alone together or several by themselves. They range from the sublime to the tragic, and from the sensible to the idiotic. A Something that was at that particular time, a Something that could become a what might be, or even a Something that was a reflection on life.

For example;

The sea eagles. Even though there were usually some on an inland river, their excessive numbers this year meant that something was out of place. Can't blame floods because 2013 had a low river. Why did they come?

Similarly, the murray cod and cormorants of 2014 posed a dilemma. There are always murray cod and little black cormorants on the Darling. Always. And again, it was not a flood year to therefore build up the cod migration or create an influx of water birds like the cormorants. So, what then? And what does sharing look like on the Darling anyway?

The logs across the Macintyre of 2015, were a symbol of blockages that still haunt me. I guess the obvious would be the restrictions (and therefore blockages in a physical sense) of a knee replacement, but it was more. The trees across the river were a test, and I'm not so sure I got a satisfactory pass.

God. That bloody azolla below Bourke, also in 2015, was way more than merely being trapped. It was the way you looked at life and the trials that it presented. And more importantly, how you handle such obstacles. Again, Anthony's grades would improve if he tried harder.

The green fields of 2016 were extraordinary. Not so much caused by the minor fresh that came down the Darling as much as the local rain. Abundance at its best. Wildflowers, lush grass, and water everywhere. All typical of one part of Australia's changing landscape. In those weaker moments when you long for the stability of a countryside that is consistent and orderly, slap yourself hard and get out to the Australian bush.

The crazy channels of the Paroo River in September 2016 were an extension of the New South Wales wet winter. These channels handed out confusion like lollies at a kid's birthday party. Not the usual snakes or jelly babies; these lollies were demented. Left in the oven too long (or wherever lollies are made). The Paroo is nuts. People should be barred from venturing out there.

In April 2017, I should not have gone to the river at Menindee. I know that. I had debts, worries, health issues a mile long, but you know what? I went anyway. And it was good. Is not happiness occasionally made up of unhappiness? Cannot unhappiness be a part of happiness and be happy it's there?

The turtles in September 2017 were joyous. A lesson in frivolity and total idiocy on my part. What a nice way to end an era.
PART 1

#### 2013

### LOUTH TO WILCANNIA

##### 1

Touching wires causes instant death. $200 fine.

'Hello? That you, God? Could I speak to Fred? He owes me.'

When the fur trade was in full swing in 17th century Canada, or as it was known then, New France, the North West Company and the Hudson's Bay Company outfitted fur traders. They sent blokes in canoes, known as voyageurs, to take supplies to these fur trappers and then these voyageurs brought back the furs. The voyageurs paddled at least 14 hours a day and suffered from drowning (where I come from, that goes beyond suffering), broken limbs, twisted spines and ferocious mosquitoes. For the latter, they used a mixture of bear grease and skunk urine.

These blokes would have fitted straight into western New South Wales.

On the first day the voyageurs paddled their canoe only a short distance and then made camp. This was so that they could see that nothing had been forgotten and being near to the base, any mistakes could be easily corrected. This was known as a Hudson's Bay Start. Mind you, you wouldn't want to be the one who had forgotten the whatever it was. 'Alors Pierre, get your skinny arse in that canoe and paddle back and get the Mars Bars.'

My starting day on the river was also short. But if I had forgotten something, even though I was on the slowest flowing river in the universe, I sure as hell was not paddling back upstream to get it. I always made camp early on the first day because I wanted to go fishing.

I left Louth at 10am and made camp at around five past. I put the tent up, gathered wood and tossed a line in. As I went through my gear I noticed that I had left two dozen chook eggs under the seat of the ute, which was back in Louth. There was a possibility my brains were back there also.

The voyageurs got up at 3am to pack and then paddled from sunrise to sunset. They maintained a rhythm of 45 strokes a minute which equals around 160 kilometres a day. There's Louth To Wilcannia done in less than three days. (It took me 23 days to paddle that distance.) To keep the rhythm, and possibly to drown out the screams of pain, they sang songs. Some titles were _Hurt_ by the Nine Inch Nails, _Help_ by the Beatles or even _Rain Drops Keep Fallin' On My Head_ by B. J. Thomas.

They stopped every hour to rest and smoke a pipe, and these breaks were vital in order to maintain the pace, and dare I suggest, the ability to breathe correctly for a bit and to keep social cohesion with up to 40 smelly men in a confined space. They measured distances in terms of pipes. For example, a three-pipe lake, 19-25 kilometres long, was three hour's travel, the distance covered before breakfast.

This method of measuring distance has been adapted to Australian conditions when driving. It is calculated in cans of beer consumed. For example, Wanaaring to Hungerford in western New South Wales is ten cans.

And then there are the portages. Portage is a beautiful word. It is French and translates directly to English as, 'You may slip and break a leg shortly.' Marvellous language, French. The portages I did, involved an unload and carry, followed by a drag. Then I did the gear and the canoe. I was swift and efficient.

A voyageur's canoe had 65 bundles of goods and each bundle weighed 40 kilograms. During a portage, voyageurs used a tumpline (a leather sling across the forehead) to carry two bundles. Did I just read that correctly? They carried 80 kilograms? Then, have a go at this; after the voyageurs carried this load for at least half a mile, then they went back and did it time and time again until the portage was done. They had also their own personal belongings. Maybe they put those in their trouser pockets on trip number 24,000. And often there was more than one portage per day. And don't forget to add the canoe itself, which weighed up to 136 kilograms.

My god, I'm never complaining again. Way back I walked the Larapinta Trail in Central Australia and carried a 25 kg pack, occasionally with an extra 9 kg of water, and I still wake up screaming. My physio counts on me paying for her holiday to the Swiss Alps each year, her mortgage repayments each month and a night out once a week.

My canoe was, and still is, 465 cm long (just over 15 feet), 86 cm wide and weighed 32 kgs. For this trip I loaded the canoe with two 60 litre waterproof drums, a grill plate, some fishing gear and a waterproof box in a pear tree. I also had a black box recorder attached to the tail of the canoe with number eight fencing wire. In the event of an accident, this could then be used to access speed, distance travelled and my braking and cornering efforts. I removed the voice recorder component because I say some weird things when I'm alone on the river. A portage around a weir took me eight carries. When all the planets were aligned I could lift the canoe and walk about three steps, then have a cup of tea and a biscuit to recuperate, then start again. After I cleared the table, washed up and dried using a clean tea towel, I carried the other items. The paddle, a smooth wooden number made in Canada by Grey Owl (you simply must investigate the man called so), was always, and I cannot emphasise this too much, placed about three kilometres away for safety reasons. Stepping on a paddle is not a good look. Depending on the weir, the portage took between two hours and two days.

I suspect the voyageurs may not have hired me because I was too tall.

##### 2

I will correct your grammar

On a tee shirt. Too bad you can't punctuate correctly. Might have improved your street cred

Louth to Wilcannia via the river is 432.9 kilometres, give or take a bend or two. I know this for a fact because I let out string at Louth, reeled it in when I finished the journey, then measured it with a 30cm ruler. It was tough going when I had to paddle around logs, rock bars and existing assumptions, but I managed. Not to mention measuring a wet bit of string.

This trip started in mid-September, which is later than I would have preferred because of the coming heat (and didn't that kick in!) and because September is the start of the closed season for murray cod, but never mind, I was here. From the start (next to the Louth bridge) to the finish, which was a few days travel above Wilcannia, it took me just over three weeks of pure joy.

In Louth, 100 kilometres south of Bourke, I almost had myself another pub fight (you'll need to read _Drifting down the Darling_ to get a recap on the one and only pub kerfuffle I've had. By the way, I lost.) when a bloke challenged me regarding my statement that not only do I eat European carp, but they are '... a superior table fish to all inland species...' And if the bastard had let me finish, he would have heard, '... except murray cod and yellowbelly.' But no, he of the reactive nature, stood up and advanced towards me.

Now, in tight situations when you're cornered, con­trolled violence is an option, and I thought I was in with a chance because he was about ninety-two in the shade. I'd dodge and weave a bit, plant one on him, then sink the slipper in. But then his two mates came over and were keen to join the fray. One had a walking frame with so many tubes, charts and paraphernalia I thought he was a road train, the other bloke was missing a leg. I seriously thought about taking them on because of the outside chance I might win and if that happened there'd be the added joy of the bragging rights. 'Yes boys, there I was, minding my own business, when three huge shearers/contract fencers came at me. God, it was a tough fight...' Then I'd pause, turn my head and look into the distance, '... but I prevailed.'

There was no barney because I backed down. They were lucky, let me tell you.

While we're talking about carp, I'd just like to pass on that each year tens of thousands of kilograms of carp are sold at the Sydney Fish Markets. In the financial year 2016-2017, 83,000 kilograms were sold, which, with a bit of sideways movement, backward leaning and forward thinking, means that someone, somewhere, somehow, is eating carp. And that's only in Australia. The Europeans, the Asians and the Middle Easterners love carp too.

I hate carp and I want them out of our river systems, but the pending introduction of the herpes virus as a means of control makes me nervous. Yes, I know, the carp herpes thing is/has been tested to bits, but I like our rivers way too much to even risk them. Besides Australia has a poor record of introduced biological control. Straight away I'm thinking the mongoose, cane toad and international soccer coaches.

'Okay Pritchard, what have you done to control carp? Got any ideas?'

For starters, I have caught and killed way more carp each day than the fish markets have sold like forever. Ever forever. Secondly, back in the day, there was a bounty on crows' heads, rabbits and even those responsible for taking a dive in an international game of soccer. So, what about extrapolating and having a dollar per kilo for each carp? Never mind every bush kid making a fortune, stay out of my way. There's bush towns reinvigorated right there, post offices that can return to only do letters and parcels, banks that can stay open for at least one day a week and local councils can stop being as corrupt.

If you disagree, don't find fault or complain querulously.

Weirs are there. Whether you agree with them or not, they are there, like the environmental care factor shown by corporations, deceitful politicians and diarrhoea. In a genteel and civilised society, such as we have here in Australia, the first two items can be hard to avoid, but if seen on the telly, read about in our almost mono-controlled newspapers, online or encountered in person, can induce the third.

From Bourke to Wentworth on the Darling River, there are currently ten weirs, and none of the other items mentioned. Some weirs are easy to drag around, others not so.

The weir below Louth, which is a little way down river from the Dunlop homestead, is a reasonable portage on the left bank. There were some fishermen just below and I hoyed out and asked for a hand. They cupped their hands to their ears and shrugged. Right. I'll remember that.

As I slipped over sharp red boulders the size of houses, muddy water dribbling down my back while I did my usual eight-trip portage thing, I saw these hearing-impaired fishermen attempting to haul in what must have been a massive fish. Several of these stunning examples of manhood (including their sunburnt necks, buck-teeth, bib-and-brace overalls with no shirt underneath, and hair protruding from ears, backs and several other places I'm too embarrassed to mention) were pulling on the line, grunting and groaning, and saying things like, 'Comeon baby, just a little more, comeon.' They may have been referring to their sister, who was next to them plaiting her angel-fish pigtails and shelling peas at the same time, one can never be certain. Either way, lucky I have excellent hearing. Unlike some. Then the Gods intervened, and their whale shark snagged the line. I believe it's called divine intervention, also known as, revenge, justice, or, Up yours, you wankers.

After I had reloaded my sixty-five 90 lb packs, wrapped bandages around my blood-soaked shins, and started paddling, they asked me for help. Could I perhaps unhook their line? I cupped my hand to my ear and mouthed, 'What? Can't hear you properly, the water's too loud over the weir.' They waved frantically, their tattoos and mullets swaying in the breeze, and pointed to the taut line. I shook my head and put both hands palm up. 'It's no use guys.'

Besides, I was too weary.

##### 3

I like my prints charming

Narrabri radio 2Max FM 91.3 ad for a camera store.

I heard motorbikes gurgling just back from the high bank, then two bikes breasted the bank. It was Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper on choppers, looking for Australia. Fonda said, 'Where's your back-up team man? Hey, want some weed?'

'The team? Coming soon I think. Weed? Nah, I'm okay thanks. Just had some thistles and dandelions.'

Two Honda 90s fish-tailed away, leaving dust, funny-smelling smoke and The Band to waft into my memories.

Now that I think about it, a back-up team might be okay. I'd cruise into camp, tables all set up ready with cold beer, warm brie and hot women. The tent would be erected, the fire crackling and the portable shower waiting. Clean dry clothes, tasty food and stimulating company. Is there anything else in life?

Well, yes there is. Because even if I ever had a million dollars with which to fund a back-up team, I would give it all away. Immediately. Does not the slight uncertainty of choosing your own campsite and its setting up lend fulfilment? Even when not particularly fulfilling or even successful? And if not a successful choice (which happened often and was usually accompanied by anguish, and/or tears), does not this act of unsuccessful choosing move beyond desperation and into acceptance, because you made a choice when you had no choice? And everyone knows that money cannot buy choice, only a false sense of self-worth and an illusion of freedom within an unrealistic hope. And there's no such thing as a bad choice. Ever.

And more importantly, this choosing of campsite, whether it be in sunshine or rain, is a joining of the sacred and the profane. A big call maybe, but the everyday, no matter what that is or how it pans out, is always a part of our universe and must be accepted for its relative sanity, security and stability. And it is yours to hold and keep.

Don't know why people don't listen to me. Born to be mild, that's me. But I do know that for all my faults (two at last count), mistakes (none yet) and occasional anxiety, that I believe in me.

No, boys, I have no back-up team. Maybe I was still looking for myself within Australia, which included an aloneness that was imperative, a bending of the rules, that, besides its futility, gave me confidence and an attempt to seek the best as it was at that time, regardless of, in spite of, and because of, the Man?

##### 4

'His fingers were on the scales'

This was in the window of a butcher's shop. Perhaps this quote would be more applicable in a crime series called _Caught red-fingered_. Or, _CSI, Butcher's shop_.

A clear sky, no breeze and I was paddling on glass. The canoe glided without a paddle, a breakage or a gentle push and I wondered, was someone else pushing me? Or was there something else I was missing? It was an Erik Satie morning, a one piano note per ten minutes, lifting me to a low deep respect. The mood, the tone, and the subtle stillness were accentuated by the Earth slowing down to let me on, like when you run next to then hop onto a merry-go-round horse, or you jump a rattler. And once you're on, it's time to take a breath and be thankful. Thankful, not only you missed being squashed by a rocking horse or a train carriage, but maybe thankful you missed being chosen to join the army.

Between 1964 and 1972 Australia had a selective National Service scheme. This meant that twenty-year-old males (comeon girls, you want equity?) who had registered their names were eligible to be chosen by ballot to perform two years' continuous full-time service in the Regular Army followed by three years' part-time service in the regular Army Reserve. This scheme also meant that these young men (who, by the way, did not have the right to vote) would, from March 1966 onward, be sent to fight in Vietnam. The ballots selected several dates and all males with corresponding birthdays were called up.

In 1972 I was twenty and as I was driving home from work, the dates were called out for my birth month which was May. They were:

The 2nd, 3rd, 5th, 11th, 13th, and 20th.

My birth date was the 28th of May 1952. And so, my time had not come.

Did I join the army anyway, regardless of missing out on call up? Courage or cowardice, what's it to be? Not a great comparison or combination, with only a shallow middle ground. I wasn't worried that the communists would find their way to Australia and teach us how to play dominoes (I already knew how to play anyway), I just had a total fear of going into battle. And what little I had seen on the television about this unwinnable war served to reinforce this. And anyway, I doubted that the US and Australian governments were being truthful.

Conscription ended when Gough Whitlam's Labor Party was elected in December 1972. I know Dad voted for Labor because he didn't want his babies going to war. Dad had spent a bit of time in New-Guinea fighting the Japanese and then as part of the occupied forces in Japan.

Did Japan want to invade Australia? Or just soften us up a little while it went about taking the remainder of the Pacific? Either way, bombing Darwin (243 Aussies killed) and touring Sydney Harbour in submarines didn't engender trust of the Japanese, or our security within geo-political affairs.

There was talk that if Japan did invade, Australia would retreat to the South-east and leave the rest undefended. Good luck with that, the rest of Australia, we still love you. The proposed imaginary and perhaps imagined line was called the 'Brisbane Line' and it went from Brisbane to Adelaide following quite a bit of the Darling River. No cabinet documents have ever been found. Were they real or were they destroyed? What I want to know is, which bank of the Darling was the line on? The West or the East?

I came across Bryce Courtenay's _Smokey Joe's Café_ in a Bourke second-hand shop and my goodness, although it is a work of fiction, Courtenay puts you slap bang in the battle at Long Tan, one of the major battles for Australian troops in Vietnam in 1966. He writes about the personal battles after that war, including PTSD, health issues and a plan to obtain justice for the veterans and their families. It's raw, well researched and kept me up way past my bedtime.

I'd always wanted to be a writer and had retired from teaching in 2010 to write a book about my first Darling trip which I did in the seventies. Full-time teaching doesn't leave much personal time to breathe let alone be creative, and when it does grant you a bit of time, it's in grabs after the holiday tiredness, the family time and the alcohol addiction. So, I pulled the pin. With only fourteen years teaching my super wasn't particularly robust but I saw a window, a door, a set of louvres. And I opened all of them. It was a bit breezy, but it was exciting, and I was thankful for the opportunity.

Being thankful can be done in many ways. A quiet word to the self, a letter written with passion, a choice of digital categories, or you can actually speak to a real person. This last one can be scary but is often necessary.

##### 5

Innovation, diversity and success. Our initiatives will be tailored to enhance short-term profitability.

Can't recall where I saw this one, but it's a waste of paper. I want to say more, like that this jargon is insincere, insulting, and the writer is waffling, but I won't.

I have turned staring into little campfires into an extreme sport. Skiers hurtling down 90-degree slopes dodging rocks, pine trees and busty blondes serving large cocktails are soft. People who leap off cliffs, buildings and bridges in those baggy suits have got nothing. Diving amongst white-pointers? Huh, go back to land and take up knitting because it would be more dangerous and no doubt more complicated for your small brain and lack of ticker. And never mind running through razor-wire, naked ('Don't forget to tuck 'em in or you won't have 'em.'), crawling through mud while live ammo is whizzing around your lugs, or stirring a scone mix correctly, the competition for places in my team is fierce. The training is hell, I can tell you. For starters, you have to be able to light kerosene cubes effectively, need to show no sign of pain after sitting on a log (no cushions) for three hours, and be able to stay silent for a minimum of two days - without a digital device within three kilometres. The first one sorts out a few wussy contenders; the second will see a couple more fall, rubbing their arse and whingeing as they do so, and the last one should not be undertaken if you are under thirty years of age because silence and no social contact are the last bastion of sorting-outness controlled by us baby boomers.

And then after years of training (plus of course, no beer or chocolates - told you it was tough), when you stare into a little campfire, well if nothing happens then it will be obvious to the gods that you either smuggled a few things into the athletes village (more than your share of condoms, sleeping pills and/or tighter lycra), because when you master staring into little campfires, you will not only talk with the gods, but you will see them. I have a few places vacant in next year's training squad. Give me a ring.

##### 6

Mobile sand blasting

An advertisement on a sign near the road. Be no good for the QWERTY thing.

Corellas are crazy birds. Not only did 500 or so of these deranged parrots try to kill me in the seventies, they punch above their weight in their day-to-day life. This is not dissimilar to sportsmen who hook up with gorgeous blondes with split dresses that show their long legs. Think that sentence is right but I'm not sure. The girls are stunning, the sportsmen perhaps not so (think flattened noses, dodgy haircuts and lots of coloured ink). Corellas aim high, not because they aspire, but because they are fucking stupid. I'm really sorry, but there's no other way to say that. They are like sheep (as are quite a few of those international cricketers, jockeys and rugby league players). That is, their intelligence is relative to no known base line that exists.

I'd be paddling along, being real still, and 8,000 merino wethers will stop what they are doing and stare. Now I'm a bit self-conscious (read: a bit overweight. I'm not the Before or After shot, I'm more of a During.), and after I cover my face, belly and thighs (which is quite difficult using only two hands), they will then stampede and over half will be trampled to death. It's like a continuous rolling cull. Hooves and wool everywhere. Sheep farmers love me. I can paddle underneath several thousand corellas, who have just about finished destroying the tree they are sitting in, and they will lean down and stare. By this time, after a few merino incidents, an excellent memory and quite a few jealous sentiments, I will have had enough. So I will stand and scream. Even though I may need to get out more, I still take pleasure in seeing a large flock of corellas get taken down. This is not a deficit of my psyche, this is not a representation of my outstanding social ineptitude writ large, this is pure and simply payback. And I had more pleasure a little while later.

There was a gum tree. A tall, splendid gum tree, just a little back from the river, and in one side was a little falcon's nest, the other had a hollow which a pair of corellas were using as their nest. Now along the Darling, this is normal. A tree shared is an environmentally friendly 1970s gas-guzzler in working order. The filters have been changed, the belts tightened, and the plugs cleaned. But no, our corellas, wearing Holden caps, thought they would try to exercise dominance, didn't they, because after one of the Ford Falcons ventured onto the corella's side (the half-way line so measured with some red string, two mobile phones and a laser beam) but only by a little bit, say half a leaf. The two corellas flew into him, literally. Tore shreds off the falcon. Feathers drifted to the ground, blood stained the wattle and the race referee did not intervene. What was left of the falcon limped back to his side to have his duco repainted and the corellas went home rubbing their hands together in a gesture of We fixed him, That'll teach him and Hey you, don't cross the line again. Don't even walk the line or you'll be in a line up.

I suspect the intoxication of winning left one of the corellas with memory loss because within half an hour he went past the half-way line, so marked this time by land mines, barbed-wire and large dogs loosely tied-up, and onto the falcon's side. The un-beaten falcon screamed like a demon and smashed into the corella and they both fell to the ground. Usually when birds grapple and fall, they part just before impact, but not on this day. They fought like brother and sister, they fought like Scotsmen against the English, and when it was all over, the corella was towed off into the sunset because he was unable to drive. He had his tyres rotated, his windscreen wipers replaced and quite a few nipples greased. And though Ford Falcon claimed victory, again, and the line sleeps tonight, it was still not enough for me to feel the extra joy of payback. This finally came from a refugee, a ring-in, one who, it was said, shouldn't be on the Darling in such numbers.

White-breasted sea-eagles, like a lot of other bird species, furry animals and unhappy humans, often stray from their usual geographical boundaries. They just want a better life and there's nothing wrong with that. I mean, if you were a sea-eagle, why would you want to live next to the sea all the time? Be bloody boring sitting there, catching a breeze, drinking coldies and eating fresh fish. If you were/are a squirrel, why would you live in the wild and be hunted mercilessly by wildcats, weasels and woyotes? Man, move to a new country's urban park and be done with it. Let the little kiddies feed you and then they will feel good because they will then tell grandma that they fought off wolves, porcupines and starvation, just to save the native wildlife.

Humans? Well, apparently not many governments or educated citizens realise that the world has changed this past twenty years and that some people may need to move. So many dismissed Tunisia, Egypt and Brexit. They avoided Yemen and Syria, and as for those who tamper with water meters along the Darling system?

1. You lose your licence.

2. You are fined $500,000.

3. You pump back that water.

4. You go to jail.

Remember the theme song for the rugby Union World Cup of 2015? _The World in Union_. My sort of wit. Not that I like rugby union. It's rubbish. But there's a dream we all must surely have - the world as one. But we still get to keep individual cultures. But not tampered with water meters.

The movement of creatures can be caused by war, global warming or even successful advertising.

War? See the above and add some more. Global warming? Whether you say we are the cause of what's going on up there or it's merely a natural occurrence (after all, we seem to be overdue for an ice-age), it is irrelevant. We are altering the planet in soo many ways, including the global warming thing, absolutely, yet I am way more concerned about the more immediate problem of the pollution of our waterways. Fresh and/or salty. Plastic, heavy metals, soil runoff (including chemicals), depletion of fish and the wholescale changing of the ecology. Take your pick.

Maybe we could all acknowledge past bad things, accept a bit less, and share what we have? And therefore, still have the incredible benefits that progress has given us? The second verse of our national anthem promises, _'For those who've come across the seas, We've boundless plains to share._ How's that going? The verse continues, _With courage let us all combine._ Maybe us Aussies could replace _Combine_ with _Segregate_?

The advertising to convince white-breasted sea eagles to move to the Darling was compelling:

_'Risk everything and choose a new beginning away from the dull seashore. Let us be your darling. Don't be harshly treated anymore by corrupt governments, no sir, come and experience ours instead. Yo, Western New South Wales is trending, it is where we are sending, where we are not mending, where we are bending, the law, what we say we saw, we'll be unfaw, with no caw, for evermore. Have no fear, we are hear. Come to us, where the warm amber liquid that passes for beer is sold_ (at a price that would upset global trends on Wall St, the ASX and the Hang Seng Index), _where the air is warmer_ (occasionally upwards of 50 degrees C), _and the fish, well, we hope you like European carp.'_

Build a wall and they will stay, build a school and they will come, build false hope and they will also come. And so it was that in this, the year of the white-breasted sea-eagle they came, because boatloads of these birds were convinced to head to the Darling River. Some were intercepted and were turned back, some were imprisoned and apparently a few, in total desperation, even tossed eaglets overboard (there was no actual evidence of this, because, believe it or not, politicians lie) but still they came. Below Louth, in 2013, there was a pair of white breasted sea-eagles on every second bend. The government said, 'How did these bastards get in? We only wanted pure whites.'

They got in because the Nikkei had dipped, iron ore went under $65 a tonne, and the Dow Jones slid 0.6% (all the above were a result of a certain beer in a yellow can that had infiltrated the enemy state), a refugee camp closed, and its inmates were dispersed with no counselling, medical support or means to defend themselves. 'These sea-eagles are not our problem,' the Australian Government said. 'They are economic refugees and come here with no money, no papers and no idea how to speak Australian.' (And the last one is a minus?) Conveniently forgetting that they have visa programs to attract wealthy white immigrants, particularly from South Africa. None of whom can understand a native-born Australian when he or she opens his or her mouth because Australians, even without a slight alteration of tone, whine or anger level, are friggin' hard to understand at the best of times.

An adult sea-eagle, a magnificent grey and white skilled fish-eagle (almost pure white), ready to contribute to the destruction of introduced fish in our inland waterways, who had escaped Cambodia, Myanmar and the blue-ribbon seat of Armidale, sat on a dead branch overhanging the river and watched. He was a master, one who drew adulation just by sitting still and drawing breath. I know this feeling; it's not bad I suppose. A warrior that you just know is a veteran of pub brawls, tuckshop queues and the reserve bench.

And he wasn't wondering how he would pay for his next betting ticket, sporting venue ticket or speeding ticket, he was thinking of going to China because he had had enough of Australia's deceit, data control and air pollution. (He was going back to where?) He saw a tree full of corellas (pure white, could speak English, and knew how to burn meat at a barbecue, and therefore totally acceptable according to Australia's immigration rules) and swooped past and, to my utmost pleasure, three-hundred corellas screeched in fear, pooed themselves and flew away to the Australian Institute of Sport to relearn how to attract long-legged blondes.

Too bad I was underneath the tree.

##### 7

Unattended children will be given an espresso and a kitten

Seen in a café in Hay.

Not long after the corellas returned from the Australian Institute of Sport, full of tips on how to attract long-legged blondes, and were now totally in fear of killer raptors, a lone black kite flew past. It is with great sorrow that I must report that this kite, this world-renowned traveller, when he flew past the corellas, they did not even blink. They continued preening, having their toenails filed by parrots from the southern provinces, and watching pirate television. All the black kite got was a peewee on his tail. I said, as I wiped my hair, ears and shoulders, 'Don't worry dude, you are the best of all. Your cute call is beautiful, your kohl is superb, and your twisty forked-tail is mesmerising.'

Best I could do really.

Back in the day, with my trusty .22, I could knock over a pig from two miles away. The army snipers you see in the movies got lessons from me. I would say to the trainee dedicated snipers (called 'dipers'), 'Boys and girls, as soon as you look down the sight, set at coarse of course (scopes weren't invented back then), don't breathe; at all. And just before you squeeze the trigger, pretend you are the bullet. Spin through the air, be gracefully swerved by the gentle breeze, but focus, please focus, then go thunk, into the upper shoulder, or between the eyes, of that boar.'

But now I have no rifle. So now, when I chase (limp after) pigs without a weapon, personal assistant or trained ferret, there are many things that can, and will, go wrong. One is that I may die, although this is not as serious as cuts and abrasions or any associated mental scarring, because although death is final, and wounds may heal, living with the anguish of misplaced testicles is forever.

I had vowed not to ever chase pigs again because I had been lucky thus far in my pig killing escapades (and supremely skilled, let's be honest here) and as I was now older, I had matured and become a sensible man. Any day I would probably start lecturing youngies on the risks of back-answering parents, the dangers of low-fat foods, the benefits of gut-health and the immorality of sex before marriage.

When a huge tree slips down the bank and disappears into a Darling River hole, half the river bank goes with it. This leaves a curved sort of washout, up to a mile long and three miles deep. Over time, this washout can become clogged with tall woody weeds, branches and shopping trolleys; all of which make a perfect daytime hiding place for pigs.

As I glided close to one of these places, I heard a sow talking to her piglets - and I knew what she was saying. I didn't need Google, the Oxford Australian dictionary or the Rosetta Stone to translate, because Pig is one of the nine languages I speak. She wasn't warning her children about me (never mind the J-stroke, A-spot or deep breathing, I discovered, and perfected, the silent canoe manoeuvre), she was saying, 'You don't wash, you don't tidy your bedrooms, and you stink. This place will end up looking like a pig sty.'

One of the piglets answered back and I knew straight away that he may need my advice, probably soonish I'd say. He could sort out his diet, inner-health and hormones by himself. Like we all did. I also knew that I could gently slide into the sand and be up amongst them in two shakes of a lamb's tail. But no, I did not do this because I am a mature and sensible man. Have I said that yet?

As I gently paddled past, wobbling my head in a grown-up stick-that-into-you attitude because I was so cool, I had a niggle. It wasn't the recurring shoulder injury, the clogged arteries or the painful memory that I once almost praised a conservative politician, it was that bloody inner voice, the one that has caused me more grief than the taxation department, the dole office and aunty Beryl (who is currently editing my fourth book) put together, and it said none too subtly, 'Have you lost your balls completely?'

Three bends later aliens took control of my mind. I saw a washout, similar to the one that had been infested with mobile phone promised deals, single-use plastic bags and stockpiled truck tyres, and I again heard a sow. As before, a linguistic tutor, decoder or a language translator app were not needed. I was appy enough and wanted to sty that way. I didn't want to be a swine or a hog.

She was saying, 'You over there in the mud, if you do not stop telling porkies, do not do your homework, then you will end up as an incoherent teenager who grunts.'

I ran like a maniac, side-stepped through the stinking smoking rubbish tip, the headstones of settlers and the guilt of our baby-boomer generation, grabbed a half-sized piglet by its back legs, swung it around and bashed its head on a log.

One way to prepare and eat a pig is to cut its throat, gut it and toss it on the coals. And once you spit out the hair, bacteria and squeals, is quite tasty. I prefer the legs in the camp oven look myself. Done slowly, cooking the pig also, is a lesson in not only patience but in gastronomy; which is a study of the universe, culture and food, brought together in harmony, just like that second verse of our National Anthem.

Inner voices also have a twin, one who is encouraging, one who gives hope and one who helps to makes us a better person. He/she can override the other twin (who plays on doubts, deceit and insecurities; and who encourages negativity, hatred, and is divisive), and shore up what meagre morsels of dignity are remaining, what goodness is growing, and every now and again predict the future. If you're ready.

And can I say that research has clearly shown that people who listen to their inner voices, however troublesome that may be, are more confident, more self-aware and way more gorgeous. That's if you count stupidity, fantasies and shame, mixed with justification in varying measurements, as being gorgeous. Solitude on an old river, for example, when joined with still silence, engenders acute listening which may then (or bloodywell should) become a healthy questioning, but rarely an agreement of an idiotic inner-voice comment such as, Yes Tony, what a great decision to run amok amongst some feral pigs.

And hopefully this listening without ears challenges pre-conceived limitations, dirty habits, others' untruthful perceptions of your insecurities and becomes the new norm, one that overrules a _You will climb that slippery tree_ , a _You will drink that extra beer_ , a _Yes, you will do that dumb thing._

A norm that also says, I challenge my faulty self-confidence or indecisiveness, the limitations of my truth; a challenge that cuts to the bone of life's piglet and that I am a good person.

Maybe I should just get another rifle. Be a lot frigging easier.

##### 8

Architect designed

This is what peewees, choughs, and apostle birds say when they are selling. They all use the same architect's name: _Adobe and Fibre Pty Ltd._

I have done weirs and the Tilpa weir is not too bad to get around. You pull in to the right-hand side a hundred yards before the wall and then gently lead the canoe to just before the wall. Then it's a seven out of ten risk to transport everything along the grassy bank, over the wall and then down through the huge rocks to the flat area below the weir. Only a seven because if you slip, with or without your 180 lb load, there goes your ankle, knee and hip in the one manoeuvre. If it were a ten you'd really do yourself some damage and still be there, your ankle wedged between two rocks. And then, like in the movies when the poor sucker is tied to a post at low tide, you would be fucked. The sharks would circle, closer and closer...

When I walked under the Tilpa Hotel verandah, I noticed that the temperature gauge read 96 degrees Fahrenheit; and it was only nine a.m.

When it's hot along the Darling there are flies. Not talking about blowflies that will lay maggots on your food, blankets or hair, not talking about March flies that make horses jump, eels squirm and trees shake in fear, I'm talking about little black bush flies. They like your sweat (bush people have been known to carry a flat 20 kg black backpack on their back), and saliva. You open your mouth you swallow.

But it's your eyes they really prefer. No amount of insect repellent will deter them because each spray can, roll-on or rub-on cream will let you know that if you as much as get this repellent near your eyes you will end up abstaining from alcohol, sex and chocolates, and, as a possible side-effect, also you may also be blind for life.

Being the sensible young man that I continue to be, I wear a face mesh. You simply cannot function without one. It's a bit hard to scratch your nose, chin or what maybe left of your eyes, but it is effective.

Being the sensible and mature young man that I still am, I stayed in Tilpa for a couple of days, looking after my health and wellbeing by keeping out of that hot sun and hydrating myself.

In Australia's inland pubs, there is always someone to tell a story. This is one of the glories of our pubs and the Tilpa Hotel was no different. Which means it was the same.

George from Victoria had travelled through Iran, Afghanistan and Africa in the sixties. He said, 'My kids aren't interested in my travels.' Holy Smoke, I was. In the Middle East, he said he had sold blood at an American Hospital to get money to travel further. The next morning, his blood extraction bottle was used for his coffee flask. I was impressed with George's stories, and the ingenious recycling.

##### 9

I'd rather be driving golf balls.

Need small seat belts.

Some days on the river, the only human-type noises were passenger jets. They went from east to west, usually pretty high, and from where I sat in the canoe, flew over the planet not across it. And when they ended up in the western sky they flew down. Maybe the earth is round after all. Doesn't the earth rotate west to east? Which means these jets were going against the spinning atmosphere? Must use a lot of fuel doing that.

When I am down here, as in, either walking in the dirt or paddling a canoe, well when I look up, it seems like I am at the bottom of an ocean and the atmosphere is the ocean. But then if the atmosphere is an ocean, then above the surface of that ocean must be an atmosphere. Then at the bottom of that new and improved atmosphere (above the newly-discovered ocean), there might be a person. What if the atmosphere wasn't the ocean but the universe was?

I may need to get out more.

I figured somewhere around Perth there was a huge pile of airliners from QANTAS, Emirates or Singapore Air (I could tell by their tails), sort of like the pot of gold at the bottom of a rainbow. There is one, right? On certain days, these fly-in-not-fly-out-front-of-their-sound aeroplanes left contrails, beautiful thin cotton-white lines that got woollier and wider as they were left behind in a dodgy meter reading of megalitres.

On one of these cold atmosphere mornings even the cormorants left vapour trails. They realised this and had a bit of fun. One wrote, _How cool are my entrails?_ And therefore, needed referring to a standing committee of mixed-up words, but when I read the next one, _Anyone want a shag?_ I thought, dudes, it's cold shower time. One bird left a recipe, _Catch and eat one small fish._ This was minimalism at its best. A signature dish, one could say. After some advertising for carpets and several games of noughts and crosses, I longed for a warm atmosphere, where grammar, desire and earthiness came together on the ground only. A universal grounding, one could say.

In the early mornings, the soft dull light muted the outside smooth curve of the high banks, sweeping around any corner available. It was as if the river had lost a fight with a glacier, a heavy powerful slow grinding glacier, that like rust, never slept, and was swept around not to cause erosion but to follow it. Not sure who won that one.

The white clay banks, the green leaves and the often tan-shaded logs all changed colour when it rained. The banks turned grey, the leaves went dark green and the logs were painted black by river fairies, but only when you weren't looking. If you were quick, you'd often see two-toned logs, but never the spirits that caused them to be so. To see magic, one must not look.

Logs in the Darling were removed for the paddle steamers and this is fair enough. Sort of. However, logs were removed even after the river boats turned into trains, trucks and trones, because it was (and still is occasionally) believed that logs in a river channel impeded water flow and therefore increased flooding. As apparently do the trees on the banks and in the riparian zone fifty bloody thousand kilometres on either side.

I suppose a full weirs-worth (he used to write poetry about logs before he moved onto daffodils) of logs would indeed cause local flooding. Resnagging our inland rivers has been done for over twenty years with great benefits for native wildlife and the natural appearance of these rivers. The general message is to let sleeping logs lie.

##### 10

Lane control ends

Who will control those soon-to-be naughty lanes?

It was now mid-October and time to leave the river. The wind was full of flames; a blast-furnace singeing the land and my brain; the heat fanning my unopened dreams, and the way things were going, possibly my escape route. I made no campfires, it was way too risky. Not that there was much to burn anyway, but you wouldn't want a reputation out here as a firestarter. I ate crackers and sardines, and after four days of this tremendous diet, a pooled river and that smeltered-wind hurtling me dangerously across the river into logs, banks and hospital waiting rooms, I decided enough was enough. One can only lash oneself to the mast so many times.

It was in the middle of nowhere (and this means I had already travelled a radius of isolation, weariness and perhaps stupidity) that I tied the canoe to a tree and made ready to head out to the road, three miles to the east, and hitch a ride, won't somebody stop and help a bloke, back to Tilpa where my ute was, when I saw something extraordinary, something so unbelievable that surely couldn't just be coincidence.

On the river in the seventies I had found a sandy beach which I had deemed to be Shangri-La, the most beautiful sanctuary ever that let all my dreams weave together in pure joy; and here it was, right now, opposite to where I had just tied up the canoe.

This realisation made the hairs rise, it was so profound I bowed my head and burst into tears.

The memories forced me to the ground. For starters, how does one recognise a specific sandy beach on a Darling River bend after 40 years? And what does coincidence mean anyway? To re-enjoy, to re-examine, to re-check who I was? Was I led to stop just here so I could let go of something?

The world has a habit of making circles and tying them together in connections, like a random Venn diagram of adventures, like a daisy chain of memories, and like a cluster of balloons tied together at a gate to indicate that Yes, this is where the birthday party is.

Déjà vu as an explanation for coincidence can only be used so many times before it becomes a duck with a sore leg. To ignore connections is a short cut to pushing stuff too deep; a way to temporarily get peace but sooner or later it will return and bite you on the bum.

But I didn't ask any awkward questions; there was no jealous, Well, where have _you_ been?, there was only a soft meeting with an old friend, a warmth of fondness, even though I had changed more than she had. I also realised that paradise just might have a time-frame, that Utopia might be transient and it's not because of it, but because of us.

##### 11

End roadwork

This sign is often next to the road. Maybe they've had enough.

I shared the roadside with burning heat, flies and sunbaking goannas. I sat on saltbush, bluebush and no bush, and I stood when I heard a car approaching. Two stopped, both crowded, just to check if I was alright. After sunset, just a tad rejected, lonely, and feeling sorry for myself, I started to trudge back to the canoe to make camp when a 4WD ute yelled out, Hoy, you doing okay? The utes out here are clever. It was Gaye Nicholls, the mail lady, and she was heading back to White Cliffs via Wilcannia, the wrong direction for me. However, life often whispers little gems. Gaye said, 'Come with me to White Cliffs and tomorrow I'll be going to Tilpa.' And so I went to White Cliffs with Gaye, and the next day as she did the next portion of her mail run, (with me as honorary and legal assistant) via the Paroo back country, she dropped me in Tilpa. I drove back, collected the ute and was in Wilcannia just after dark.

Captive audience is a term not usually used with reference to ropes, chains, or being shafted, but in Wilcannia, I was ensnared by all three. It was after dark when I pulled in to a motel, feeling ridden hard and put away wet, and the lady said, 'Yes, we have a room. It will cost you a lot of money and no, the price does not include a meal, bedding or anything resembling your dignity.'

I mentioned that I had, not that many years previous, stayed in the heart of Paris for half that price, which included free coffee, a maid and a two-stroke scooter. She went back to her Sudoku and after she wrote number 7 in the top right-hand corner, looked over her glasses and said, 'You want the room or what?'

Sitting on the curb waiting for the courtesy bus to take you to the club for a feed is a leveller. For starters, you have just re-mortgaged your home for a room, backed-down in a face-off and you are in the gutter, literally and figuratively. I think smoked is an apt description. But I wasn't face-down nor was I looking at the stars, I was looking at the road. A mini-bus slowed down. 'Hey bro, you goin' to the club?'

'Yes, I am. Hell, that was quick. Must be a great motel I'm staying at.'

'I was just drivin' past and saw you. Haven't got the call through yet.'

I was grateful because one, I would be eating soon (crackers and sardines were nice, but one must vary one's diet) and two, I saw a chance for payback.

'Could we perhaps have a little fun when the motel manager rings it through?'

Breakfast at the Court House Café (where I stayed forty years ago, when it was an hotel), was excellent. Except for the fact that the girls mixed up every order. But it was a most beautiful morning because no-one got their knickers in a knot. 'Pancakes? Uh-uh. Try that bloke over there, he looks like a pancake sort of guy.'

Everyone laughed and said, Hey, never mind, let's sort this. And so it was that genuiness and understanding win every time.

Despite its motel price, Wilcannia often has a bad rap. (Mind you, the motel price would have started a revolution in Paris, Barcelona and several South American countries - at the same time.) But the tendency to focus on the negative that may or may not exclusively be owned by blackfellas, or the tension between blackfellas and whitefellas, is overplayed every now and again. Mind you, my experiences in the seventies weren't real flash, but now, even with a few issues, this town is getting it together.

##### Epilogue

Don't let worries kill you. Let the church help.

Haven't they done enough?

I drove from Wilcannia to Brisbane via Dubbo and was surprised to find that on that long stretch between Wilcannia and Cobar, I was tail-gated six different times. One gets to see many types of idiot as you drive around. Those who push in don't worry me, I just drop back a little; those who break the law (no seat belts, speeding, leaving the iron on etc.), don't cause me too much grief either, but those who ride on my hammer really piss me off. And in the first instance a dark blue sedan rushed up behind me and stayed there for ten kilometres. I tried my usual methods of dissuadance, i.e., slowing down, touching the brake with my left foot then shooting missiles, but no, the dark-blue sedan stuck like chewing gum on a thong. My last refuge, one which doesn't make the problem go away but keeps me relatively sane, is to turn the rear-vision mirror so as to ignore such moronic behaviour. After a few months, the car eventually pulled out to pass. It stayed next to me for a few hundred kilometres and I could see through the darkened windows that they were cops. I'm okay with unmarked police cars, particularly on our highways, but Jesus lads, stay your distance.

This happened five more times. 'Team, there's a Ford ute on the road between Wilcannia and Cobar that we suspect might have more than two fishing lines set up. Give him a nudge, will you?'

Found out later that the road was one of the drug routes from South Australia.

PART 2

#### 2014

### WILCANNIA TO POONCARIE

##### 12

'Pedestrians, only cross when the road is clear.'

This sign (one of many) is in the main drag in Goondiwindi. The person and/or committee that devised this sign has never been to the Middle East or Asia. Or anywhere, really.

I started this trip in early August at Nelia Gaari Station, which is halfway between Wilcannia and Menindee on the western side of the Darling, and it took me 40 days and 40 nights to get to Pooncarie. I didn't see any of Jesus's old campsites, although spiritual truth was ever-present. August is one of the nicer months to be on the Darling. Though the nights be cold, so cold that the cold forces you to the ground with a heavy oppressive hand, the days can be balmy, so balmy that the mild temperate complemented the foolish. I may need a 40-day cleanse after that. A non-weatherable, non-biblical bonus was that it was still open season for murray cod.

Greg and Lily run Nelia Gaari and they are gorgeous and wonderful. I left the ute with them and as I left, Greg said, 'Here's something to take.' It was wrapped tightly in newspaper and was reasonably heavy. A frozen six-pack on the first camp was a nice treat. When I got to Menindee two weeks later, I was talking to a lady in the local shop. We swapped travel stories, and she said, 'You're the canoe fellow? I just drove your ute in from Nelia Gaari. It's up at the garage.'

Thank you, Greg and Lily. I'll be back.

The referred to garage, was the Menindee BP garage, run by the Coombe's brothers, John and Bob. They were exceptionally kind to me, in a bush genuine kind of way. I have tried to explain this to city people, and they say, _Yeah, so a couple of dudes looked after you_ , like you had just bought a pot of tea or something. Bush people will give, they will give till it hurts, they will so go out of their way to welcome you. But my goodness, you disrespect that, you don't give appreciation, then I'm sorry, I can't help you when you end up, lonely and decrepit in a nursing home, with your cats, wondering why no-one will talk to you. Their mum, Marie, looked after my ute while I paddled on from Menindee. A beautiful family.

I was sitting, as I did frequently, just up from the water's edge cupping a cup of tea and pondering the universe and wondering whether the fish that was currently teasing my line was really going to bite properly, when I heard a quiet noise.

It was an exhale, one that came with no audible inhale preceding it. In a situation like this, we have a system which gives us the energy to use when we choose either:

1. Fight, or,

2. Flight.

But psychologists have underestimated the list of immediate reactions one may select from. There are at least two more:

3. Stay still and prepare to die.

4. Go about you daily business as if nothing is going down.

While dismissing option # 1, but keeping option # 2 open, I used a lopsided combo of 3 and 4, without the fries or coke. I commenced with number 3 and stared straight ahead, a make no sudden movements keep your hands visible at all times type of stay still. I then guessed I was still alive, so I turned slowly, ready to burst like a released wound-up spring (which would therefore utilise option number 2), and saw a massive boar, standing about twenty feet back, watching me.

Perhaps he was coveting my tea? Not wishing to share my secrets on how to make the perfect billy of tea over an open fire, I ignored him and turned back to my fishing, thereby fully embracing number 4. I think this avoidance was mixed with an ignorance of terror brought on by a total capitulation to it. There was also a small chance that my emotions may have been suppressed for a bit, and this suppression included gurgling bowels, sweating palms and palpitations. After about three days, which was just enough time for several horror scenarios to be wrung out in my stretched mind, I stood up slowly, stretched like it was a brand-new day, and turned a wee bit so I could see out of the corner of my eye, ready to invoke option # 2. There was nothing behind me.

No wonder I got problems.

After several days travel, the Darling became lime green. Even though it tasted fine (sort of), it had a smell reminiscent of a mixture of bore water, kerosene and soap suds. What we used to bath in when we were kids. There were birds flopping about barely alive - several cormorants fell from the sky dead as doornails - and there were skeletal cows, kangaroos and mammoths. I caught fish which glowed in the dark but were reasonably edible. I also now have a luminous hue in the dark. Saves on batteries.

I passed a woolshed where the sheep that had been let out after shearing rushed to the water's edge and got bogged in the green jelly that used to be called mud. I found dead turtles, pelican's beaks and goats' horns. I saw lagoons that had been brimming in the seventies, now pooled bright red and yellow, ringed by white scum. My Bijiie Horseshoe (a superb billabong, teeming with birdlife from the old days) was a fissured drought-brown; there were bodies strewn alongside logs, pleading for rain, and there were distances of shining water, seemingly life-giving pools but were falsehoods of cracked mud.

Good old droughts. So needed, so urgently necessary, yet so painful. And even though I tried to accept the situation, I felt as putrid as the water.

I wanted my milky-tea Darling back, the river that ran true, the river that let life live and grow, and if after Menindee it wasn't so, I was going home.

##### 13

The plural of Ibis is ibises, or like the platypuses' platypi, perhaps ibi. You could have a loyalty card, called Flybi. Or gangster ibi doing Drivebis. Or internet purchases, known as iBis. Or if ibi went to school it would be iLearnings.

The scientific name for the white ibis is _Threskiornis Molucca_ , which means, Sacred Bin Chicken. I like Latin, it's so litteral.

Story tellers have always been around in different forms. From the oral to the scratched, etched or painted, from the non-verbal, the verbal, to the written. I like reading a book. And as usual, I took books to read in that short time between zipping the tent and zipping the eyes. My eyes have zips, but I only use them (the zips) when the full moon is up. I keep them lubricated with either a 3 in 1 silicon spray, WD40 or axle-grease.

I like technology. I have a collection of iPads, iPods, iLaptops, iMobiles and as a backup, two jam tins joined by a length of string. The battery never goes flat. But if I don't touch books I go into meltdown.

I read the first couple of pages of _The Narrow Road to the Deep North_ by Richard Flanagan and had to stop and have a beer and some salted peanuts. Not saying that it was too complicated, rather the other, but here was world literature, or as we know it, Australian literature, and to be savoured. Not half iBiased am I. Never mind being a war novel including romance, this story covered most of humanity's good and bad (or what is perceived as such), and Flanagan's use of language would have impressed Miss Hogan, my second-class teacher. Flanagan creates beauty out of pain, he writes music, he writes little characters to be as important as big characters and he paints delicate pictures with fine black ink.

You can judge a book by its cover. No doubt about it. Please ignore that old saying you may have heard from your grandmother, your high-school English teacher or the Pharisees that states the opposite. And you can also tell a book by its blurb, and occasionally, despite it being a fantasy-fiction, by its photos. I started _Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children_ by Ransom Riggs, one night, but didn't get very far because something wasn't right. I put it down, not in a _What is this?_ type of scowl, but in a puzzling excitement of _Can I not be so tired, and can it be dark again quickly, so I can restart?_

During the next day, as I tried in vain to focus on where I was going, why I was going and if I really was going, something kept intriguing me about this book. And on that second night, thankfully with a limited appearance of the illuminated portion of the moon seen by me, and therefore not needing the now lubricated zips (this time I was ready with Lanolin, Lachrymal Effusions or Liquid Nails), I realised what it was. Every single incident was linked and looped, nothing within the adventure was wasted and I knew this book would be a keeper. This story was so well written I went back to the start and placed a piece of paper under each line to slow me down. Been a while since I have done that. And it was his first novel!

Fantasy has got to work. You can't just have a normal story and then Wham, chuck in the fantasy element using weird place names, shifting characters or unworldly geography. You must ease the reader in, a warning if you like. All the aspects of Miss Peregrine were as natural as undoubted magic, as real as a five-year-old letting you know, rather emphatically, that Yes, there are little people in the garden because I saw them last week. Think Tolkien or our Fiona McIntosh. The reader must be taken along, the reader must believe, and the reader must be the character, or at least travelling next to him or her.

And as a bonus for my slow reading on many moonless nights, at the end of the story there is an interview with Ransom Riggs and in it he states that there is a sequel on its way.

In Lake Wetherell, the back-up water from the main Menindee weir, the trees are dead. They wind around in twists of grey where the river used to be. Their grey mood blends in to the grey sky and the lack of horizon edge.

##### 14

Hiding from wife bar rates

$1 Nope, not here

$2 You just missed him

$3 He just had one drink and left

$4 Hasn't been in all day

$5 Never heard of him

From an inland pub.

The main Menindee weir, (above Menindee), compared to say, weir 32 (below Menindee), or even a shoebox, is huge. When I approached this main Menindee weir in the seventies, riding a flood, I was saved from certain death by a local man, one Norm Edwards, around whom many legends have been written, told and photographed. One is that he was Tarzan-like (I've seen photos that back this up), and bent iron rods with his teeth. My dentist may have had something to say about that. Norm spent time with me (on the river, not in jail) and then guided me away from the face of the weir via a levee near Lake Pamamaroo and then back to the Darling below the weir. You don't want to be in front of a massive weir like the one above Menindee on a flooded river in a flat-bottomed tinnie. With no motor.

We all need a Norm Edwards in our life.

And so, with this knowledge some forty years later, (and the fact that I had spent the kiddies' inheritance just in case I came unstuck), I veered away from the main Menindee weir across to the safer levee, where I saw two lads from Broken Hill. They said, 'Hey, you want a hand, mate?'

Thank you, Ted and Jeff Morris.

We all need two Broken Hill fishermen in our life.

They helped me drag the canoe and gear over the levee, so this wouldn't be the day that I die, loaded me onto their pick-up truck and took me below the campground onto the river proper. It then took me two days to paddle into the town (20 kilometres by road) of Menindee.

The Burke and Wills Motel was booked out, so I went to Maiden's Hotel. You have to stay there. I mean, you have to. It was built in 1854 and still has explorers, ancient people and megafauna sitting at the bar. Gets a bit crowded at times. But please, oh please Maiden's, get rid of the pokies? They are an insult to the history of everything you have and an insult to the future of everything you might have. Not because of the concept of more gambling choices for society, but because of their bloody intrusive noise. Mind your own business Tony.

The doorways to the rooms at Maiden's are of similar height to those at Stratford-upon-Avon, that is, about four-foot-six tall. Didn't Bill have eggs for breakfast? Eat his vegetables? Do his homework? I am tall, but there's a bucketload of bods taller than me. Should be a warning sign as you enter a guest-room doorway at Maiden's. 'If you write plays and stuff, and are under four-foot tall, you're okay. The rest of you make your own arrangements.'

The courtyard at Maiden's is a perfect place for birdwatchers and bikes. I saw black kites, seagulls and southern whitefaces. And that's before I finished the first beer. Two motorbikes were parked at the next table. They were having a beer (two straws) and were discussing young Anna Lee and the characters in The Weight.

'What is that song about?' asked Harley.

'Well,' replied Yammy, 'Robbie, Levon and the boys have been pretty evasive. They smile like the Mona Lisa and sort of let others lead themselves on.'

'Oh, I do like to be lead on. What do you say we agree that it's spiritual, abstract, real, and a little bit of the listener?'

'Agree. Hey, you sucked when I wasn't looking! It's your shout now.'

While I was swanning around Menindee, the Variety Bash came through. The Bash is Australia's longest and most successful running charity motoring event and was started in 1985 by Dick Smith, an Australian entrepreneur, when he organised a group of people to travel from Sydney to Bourke, in western New South Wales. He wanted to take a few mates for a drive and raise money for charity, for kids who were sick, disadvantaged or had special needs. It is now an annual event and thus far (2018) has raised over $200 million. The cars must be at least 30 years old and have a theme. Sitting outside Maiden's, I saw several clowns, a well-known blonde curvy doll, a couple of ambulances and a submarine. The organisers have mechanics on hand and apparently, bribing judges and cheating are recommended procedures.

I'm not so sure this worthy venture isn't government related.

##### 15

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you get rid of him for the weekend.

Seen in a pub along the Darling.

My heart sang (it has a monotonous bass line, and this proves that music is life), because the old river was my favourite colour; a shade of milky tea, currently not available on paint shop rectangles, colour wheels or art shop pencils. When the Darling is brown it is drinkable as it is when it is green (just), but when she's milky-tea, it's Condensed Milk poured on to Turkish Delight.

'What's that you say? Those 60 litre drums aren't full of fresh water? You're not drinking the Darling water surely? Do you filter it? Do you boil it first?'

When we were kids in west Dubbo, we were trained in the art of drinking river water. Firstly, after we had suffered town water (but if we put our mouth on the tap or the hose, we were beaten severely), we quickly moved to drinking out of a puddle after there had been a shower of rain. Then we were allowed to sip river water, and then gently increase the intake. By the time I was around six I could drink water from any source.

The milky-tea Darling water is coloured so because of its slow-moving clay particles and it is cool and sweet.

I paddled around a corner and saw a funny looking kayak tied to a log, with two people on board. Again, the rules of engagement apply, and these state, _Be respectful and don't assume anything_. One of the two waved me over. We three sat for a couple of days, then he, obviously the older, said, 'This is it.'

I have several imaginations to spare, but I didn't need any of them. He continued, 'Here I am, with my son, fishing on the Darling.'

There was no response required. It was a statement that would have totally floored Lao Tzu, Confucius and the Buddha, who would have been all sharing a pot of tea at the same table. They would have nodded slightly and then bowed to the master in the kayak. He saw me looking at his kayak, which was a bolted together selection of corrugated iron, PVC downpipe and four-by-two hardwood. Not to mention a length of string and several cable-ties. 'Found her at the tip. Bit of spit and polish and we were ready to go.'

In all this, I never said a word. Even when the son, a lanky long-haired lad hauled in a sizeable cod. And stared open-mouthed at what he had just done.

And away I paddled.

When murray cod are not on, you can curse, plead or beg, but you'll get nothing. When the cod are biting you just need to look at the water and throw a line in with wishful thinking as bait and there you go. This was the Year of murray cod. Wait, this was the hour of murray cod. Fair dinkum, they could be caught in the usual suspects of deep holes, or under a log, but they were as ferocious in shallow water, next to you on the bank or at the top of a gum tree. And I became a member of a very elite club.

Apparently, if you get up to mischief on a long-haul flight, you can join the mile-high club. I don't get this because I have done a hefty number of flights over 30,000 feet and no-one has asked me to join. Must be because they know I can't afford the membership fee. But I have caught murray cod over a metre in length and therefore have automatically joined a special club. Don't want to join that other club anyway. See if I care.

If you use monofilament fishing line (i.e., old-fashioned nylon hand line), which I prefer, then when you think you might be about to join the metre-long club, you will need gloves otherwise your hands will simply fall to the ground in several well-sliced pieces. I learned this the moderately hard way and lost my left hand. And I was even more stupid and tried to heave in a 1.5m cod by its gills with an ungloved hand (there goes the remaining hand). I'm not very handy with things these days. Of course, if you are one of the sensible fishers and wear steel-mesh butcher's gloves, don't get too cocky, because after you take off the gloves in order to work the camera shutter, you might just forget all your earlier lessons and put an ungloved hand inside a cod's mouth. All cod, regardless of size, have huge mouths, and although they may have short teeth these are viciously sharp. After my hands grew back I forgot didn't I. The massive cod not only chewed me with two industrial grinding plates, it smiled as it did so.

This Year of was a shared award; murray cod, and little black cormorants. Couldn't separate the two sides and I refused to go into golden point. If two teams are even at full-time, then that's how it should be on the ladder, with no recourse to penalty count, for and against or which side has the best-looking cheer squad girls. Same score or a draw mean just that, with shared pennants, pockets and a cup of tea on Mad Monday.

On our inland rivers there are four species of cormorant and they borrow from one (or more) of Australia's four big river banks to buy a branch on which to sleep. They are a boom and bust bird. Which means if they get the signal that there's a flood way out there, they forfeit on repayments, leave the lawns unmowed and bugger off to where the flood water is. Their poopy branches then try to rig interest, manipulate public sentiment, and are quite often full of dirty laundry.

An inland waterway boom indicates a flood or certainly a higher level of water level in rivers, lakes and billabongs. I can remember lying down on the last remaining piece of dry land in the Macquarie Marshes and doing my best to count the waves of water birds flying over. You cannot, and I mean cannot, count in ones or even tens. You will start by recognising what fifty great egrets looks like, then you group and multiply, rather quickly. Then when the ibis move in, your base line is thousands. To be a part of one of these out-of-control lusty boom times, when herons, pelicans, and cormorants darken the sky, is a thrilling honour.

During their flights to get to the large expanse of water, the high-flying excited little black cormorants read in-flight magazines and watch movies. There has been evidence of a couple heading to the galley, moaning and groaning on the way and then actually making the plane rock from side to side once there. Very disturbing behaviour.

What about the waders that fly much longer distances and never bother with belonging to a club? This is a boom and bust with a much higher chance of things going south (see what I did there?).

_In 2007, a female bar-tailed godwit was tracked flying 11,680 kilometres from Alaska to New Zealand in nine days straight. It is the longest recorded bird flight on the planet. Shorebirds are not seabirds, they are waders --without webbed feet, they only go into the water as long as they can touch the bottom. This type of habitat exists all along the East Asian-Australian Flyway, the migratory shorebird highway that 8 million birds use to travel from Australia to the Arctic Circle. It takes in 22 countries, from Bangladesh and Myanmar in the west; to Australia and New Zealand in the south; and Russia, Alaska and Korea in the north._

Quote is from Ann Jones of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

Reading about birds that travel nearly 12,000 kilometres does tend to make the daily commute seem just a little easier. Wonder what movies they watch?

Little black cormorants, indeed all cormorants, are often dismissed as dirty, stinking and maybe marginally necessary; but none of these comments are fair. These birds are not only clean, (okay, they do smell awful and are loaded with lice, ladybeetles and Led Zeppelin records), but they are necessary for the ecological balance of a largely misunderstood system - misunderstood by the media, water resources ministers and rogue irrigators, not by locals. And despite the river being low, there were lots of them. Probably making sure the budget was in order, the wheelie bins were out, and the chooks fed because they knew rain was coming.

They are a small, greenish-sheened water bird with a hooked beak - their scientific name _Phalacrocorax sulcirostris_ means, 'I should have been a butcher-bird,' - who like the company of other little black cormorants and they hunt as a team. Sort of like a New South Wales based football team attempts to do, except they can't win a trick because they have no hearts. A mob will form a line on the surface or even surround a school of fish and advance slowly, with a few diving in from the front of the school. You would hope that these front-diving cormorants shared their spoils, or even the fresh ones. If I were in the Middle East and Lawrence was captured by the Turks again, I'd want little black cormorants on my side.

'Comon boys! Let's go save Aurens.'

'Abdul, look out! Release the prisoner, or it'll be our turn to be shagged!'

##### 16

Swap meet

I have some spare snags in the back fridge...

As I got closer to Pooncarie, after nearly six weeks on the river, I discovered that I had phone coverage. After I got down on my knees and thanked Big Brother, the Federal Government (same family) and several Nigerian businesses, I rang the Pooncarie Hotel and booked a room.

'Sure, no trouble. What's your name and where are you coming from?'

'Tony here and I'm arriving by canoe. Probably mid-arvo tomorrow. Want me to pay now?'

'Nope, she'll be right. See you when you get here Tony.'

All this was normal in the bush and I felt secure that I would soon be having a cold beer, a hot shower and some more cold beer. In that order.

In the bar, as I was recovering from ice-cream headache of the first cold beer, the publican said, 'How far you going?'

'Oh,' I said, 'I'm not going far at all. Matter of fact, I have booked a room.'

'Hmm, that's odd, because we have no rooms left. What did you say your name was?'

'I didn't. But it's Tony, still is, and I booked yesterday.'

'Oh, Tony. Right. Well, Tony has already booked in. And there he is, right beside you.'

Was the publican having a loan of me? You never can tell in the bush. The new Tony was in his sixties, just like me, lean, fit and gorgeous, just like me, and seemed a nice fellow (same thing). I said to no-one, 'I am officially ready for enlightenment.'

Yesterday, just after I had phoned, the publican had decided to go for a drive to the weir to check the river and stuff. Now our Tony, the new one (who currently has a nice room at the pub) was ferrying his boat around the weir and the publican, who introduced himself as such, gave him a hand. Here's where it gets tricky. Tony (who had been half of the introductory team), said, 'Hey, you got a room?' And the publican said, 'Yes Tony, got it all sorted.' Yes, you certainly have, but with my bloody room. Even trickier was that the new Tony (the one already dreaming of a cold beer, a hot shower followed by more cold beer, after his lift into town), had a kayak, not a canoe. And there is a huge difference I'll give you the drum, and not just in looks or construction. The water craft too. We're talking attitude to life, selection of sports, who's pretty and who's not. It's a divide, and one that often splits families, states or even causes international conflict. It's how the whole Middle East thing started. And Ireland too.

I found all this out as I sat like a stunned mullet. I've seen them, just sitting there, eyes all watery after someone has belted them around the gills, 'Hang on, you've got my room. The one I booked yesterday. What-is-going-on?'

Just then a couple interrupted my tantrum and said to the publican that they would be leaving earlier and hoped that this wouldn't inconvenience things. It was my turn to interrupt, 'Trust me, there will be no inconvenience.'

Tony said, 'How far do you travel each day?'

'Well, between nothing and fifteen kilometres of river travel would be usual. What about you?'

'Oh, I do around five kilometres an hour. And I'm going upstream.'

##### Epilogue

Face powder may get a man it takes baking powder to keep him

This church sign is from 2018, I swear. Two days ago was International Women's Day.

I was getting right into this writing business and the story of my seventies trip was progressing well. But what then? I was certainly going to have it professionally edited. No question, but then what? Total self-publishing, indie publishing or send it to the slush pile of a traditional publisher?

The young doctor asked, the room cluttered with students, clip boards and nerves, 'Now Anthony, what would a knee replacement mean for you?'

'Well doctor, and thank you for calling me Anthony, a total knee replacement would mean greater mobility, less pain and a better quality of life.' And they all ticked boxes, murmured mumbly things and nodded to themselves. The orthopaedic surgeon came in. He's the man. And I have had appointments with him for over ten years. He checked the x-rays, conversed with the troops then turned to me, 'Now Tony, what would a knee replacement mean for you?'

'Well Peter, even though there's a chance I would be a bit slower than before, I reckon I could play second row okay.'

'Book him in.'

I practised one down low and one over the top, unloading, and even did a kick and chase, then had that knee replacement. Oxidised zirconium isn't on the periodic scale at the minute. It's a cross between ceramics, Bakelite and wood, and should ease things. But would I be able to sit in a canoe? Roam about the river bank?

PART 3

#### 2015

### MACINTYRE RIVER

##### 17

Sheep introductions

A sign near a sheep stud. One of the participants in the speed-dating evening was heard to say, 'Wait, did you say you were a wether?'

After I woke up, I felt good. Surprisingly so. My left knee, or what was left of it, was wrapped tightly, the beer was out of reach and I didn't have internet access, but I still felt good. I phoned my wife. She said, 'How are you feeling?'

I said, 'I feel fine. Truly I do. Must be because I'm so tough.'

When the local wore off, I pressed the morphine button till it pleaded for mercy, I begged for more opiates and I promised that I would never leave wet towels on the floor again. The specialists, nurses and tea ladies all said, 'You want some advice?' Now I love advice. I always listen to it, but rarely follow it because the advicer is usually coming from their own insecurities, sincerely believed point-of-view and they carry more baggage than you can take on a QANTAS flight from Brisbane to Perth (at time of writing, 23 kgs), but not this time. They all said, 'No matter what the pain, bend and straighten that leg because if you don't the scar tissue will build up and you will not, repeat will not, be able to walk properly ever again.' Not that I was beforehand, mind you.

And I got up on the same day as the operation and I walked with a walking-frame thing. I bent the knee, I straightened it and I cried, all the while trying not to think of what the inside of my new knee looked like.

I like getting advice.

But would I be able to sit in a canoe? Roam about the river bank? I wasn't so sure, but thought I'd give it a go.

There is a river in northern New South Wales called the Macintyre, and its name and origins belie the fact that it becomes the Darling. It probably doesn't care what you call it; it just does rivery stuff. It has several other small rivers, creeks and gullies joining it, which give the Darling its major flows, and I started the first canoe trip of 2015 on this Macintyre River, at Goondiwindi, on the Queensland-New South Wales border. Daphne and Lowell Tillack of Goondiwindi were kind enough to drive me to the river just below the town weir and look after the ute.

The Macintyre was flowing fast and was a brown swirly colour. It had massive tea-trees along its banks and was my favourite thing on the planet (except for my lovely family, horse racing and cold beer), this being an inland river. The massive tea trees changed into something different though, and fairly soon.

This was to be the Year of logs-across-the-river.

##### 18

If little critters went to a gym, they would be crittercising. I'm not bossy, I just have better ideas. It's hard work being this good.

The first one I made up, the others were seen in a café on the Darling Downs.

There is only one species of bird along the Macintyre River below Goondiwindi - the sulphur-crested cockatoo. It is unfortunate but there you have it. Three-thousand of these birds live on each bend and as your draw near they give their alarm call. All of them together. Some birds in other parts of Australia, for example, fairy-wrens, have a nice alarm call. Theirs is subtle, soft and effective. It is a discreet tinkle that almost blends in with the colour spectrum and last week's news. But no, not these cockatoos. They are the loudest bird on the planet and their alarm call isn't really a call, it's a screechy yell. Sometimes when the bends were close together, the screeching was passed on like a baton in a relay; occasionally fumbled, dropped or passed illegally outside the line. A sort of continuous inharmonious ear-slamming noise of Olympic proportions. I'd like to go upstairs to check some of the baton changes and see the results of their B samples. Maybe even check a few birth certificates and gender examination results.

If you ever wanted an alarm system to protect, say, the title of the next Harry Potter, you wouldn't waste money on a high-tech computer system that could be hacked by a pimply youth in around four seconds because the pimply youths of the world seek revenge on society. They have been rejected by their parents, most male colleagues and pretty girls alike, and they have had enough. And even though they might just relate to a boy wizard, and even feel a pang of betrayal, this is not about Harry, this is about undermining secrets and creating havoc. The PY would spray the new title, not across his own socials, weekly newsletter or A4 whiteboard, but on a website called Pimple-leaks.

White cockatoos-R-Us is what you want Joanne.

And you certainly wouldn't employ a muscly oaf as security in the Middle East because when the brown stuff hits the whirly thing, he always runs home to his mother. Muscly oaves always have mothers that love them no matter what. 'My Joey, he's a good boy.' And indeed, Joey is a good boy, but he's still a mummy's boy and under her elongated thumb of so-called maternal love, in the guise of passive-aggressive emotional blackmailing, sexual frustration and a limited supply of Sao biscuits, our Joey has never had an intimate relationship. And after he knocks down a third helping of the remaining Sao biscuits filled with custard and topped with pink icing, with massive dollops of cream that each alone would cause a battleship to list, says, 'Mama, just going for a walk.' And she would say, Again Joey? and insist he take a cardigan (even though it was approaching 98 degrees Fahrenheit).

He had been doing these regular walks for a while now and each time he hid the tan-coloured cardigan in a shrub, as a statement that reeked of rebellion against a controlling parent (freedom fighters never wear cardigans, they always wear vests) and went to a bar to drink vodka. And for lonely men like Joey, who are disconsolate and a smidgeon disillusioned, drinking vodka (no odour for mummy to detect) alone, is an invitation, a fluro-coloured Pick Me sign that is easily read by honeypots. And bang, there goes the eighth title.

No, if you wanted to protect something, then all you need is one-bend's worth of the Macintyre River's sulphur-crested cockatoos.

As I drifted into a deep sleep, I heard twelve hippopotami thrashing about in the shallow water. Now I have read my African animal stories and I know that hippos are way deadlier than hyenas, honey badgers or house sparrows, so I pulled the blanket tighter.

Apart from the hippos (also known as pelicans), some other bird species must have slipped in while the cockatoos were off alarm duty. Or they were moonlighting outside Bloomsbury's, or near Gaza, the West Bank or the Golan Heights.

There were white-breasted sea eagles, doves, galahs, goshawks, friar birds, and one that was uncommon though not rare, but nonetheless, amazing - the black-breasted buzzard. An immature buzzard was sitting on an exposed dead branch sunbaking. He looked like one of my Dad's pigeons, wing extended downwards on top of a similarly extended leg, all other feathers puffed. Then he turned around and did the other side. I think I could have climbed up and tapped him on the shoulder and he wouldn't have seen me coming. Buzzards, like wedge-tailed eagles, breed early so their babies have left the nest by around mid-August.

##### 19

Wifi

A bogan's missus.

After a couple of hours paddling in the morning, I look for a chocolate log. A real log that is the colour of chocolate. I do this because I can't eat chocolate until I have seen a chocolate-coloured log. I consider this quite normal behaviour and the few times I have opened my heart and mentioned this river rule, people either run away screaming or phone the police. What is wrong with these people?

In Brisbane, I choose not to eat chocolates. But on the river, she's open slather. I stock up straight after a river trip in readiness for the next one and my study is piled high with blocks. They taunt me but I'm strong. When I eventually pack them in the canoe I say things like, 'Now, how you going? Got anything to say?'

On the river, there are rules:

1. I must eat chocolate before midday, because if I even see a chocolate log, a real chocolate or even think about either after then, I won't be able to sleep for around two weeks.

2. If I miss seeing a chocolate-coloured log (for example, just after I pass it), then at the next log I'm allowed to eat double. Also see previous rule.

3. Peel-and-reseal. What misguided person puts chocolates in these packets? I mean, peel-and-reseal may work with cheese, facial wipes and peanuts, but chocolate? Anyone who opens a block of chocolate and doesn't polish it off is a menace to society. They are deficient and have serious issues. The words willpower and chocolate should never be in the same sentence. Except that one just there.

4. You must never chew chocolate, it must only be sucked. This rule in non-negotiable. There should be online questionnaires designed to trick people, data retention from all digital devices and random searches for chew marks (and resealed packets). Anyone caught should get a mandatory sentence of two-days jail. If you do your time and then reoffend, the penalties must be harsher. Never mind fifty lashes or ankle bracelets, you must eat Brussels sprouts, iron everything from the clothes cupboard and clean pigeon coops.

David Sedaris writes a flowing sort of short story. They are based on personal stuff, including his family. There you'll be, just reading along enjoying his day-to-day prose when Bang, he throws in a line that is so dryly funny you will screech out loud. He is also the master of digression and he does it so smoothly you won't even know where you are.

'Hey Tony, Fred Here, where are you?'

'Oh, hi Fred, Tony Here. Are we related? I have no idea where I am. Been reading some David Sedaris.'

'Man, you could be anywhere.'

Sedaris is the king of quirky, the prince of perceptiveness and the queen of confessions.

##### 20

Some grin and bear it. Others smile and change it.

On a church notice board in Brisbane.

During all the river trips, I have met stacks of fishermen, campers and cockies, but not many birdwatchers. One I did see on the Macintyre was lying on a massive log, most of which overhung the river. His orange and dusty black striped coat (the stripes being more zebra crossing than actual zebra), blended in with the log and the earth, and as he stared at the photos in his bird guide, his tongue flicked in and out repeatedly with intense concentration. He read that the fairy martins build clusters of mud-pellet nests and if the birds swear when approached, or have fresh feathers protruding from the nest entrance, it's a sure sign that there are eggs or babies inside.

He then slammed the book shut and proceeded to rip open the mud nests and eat the contents.

I have seen river gum branches fall. They don't go Crack, bend in slow-motion and then hit the dirt. It's like someone has cleanly and silently sawn the branch free and two extra people, two quite tall, fairly strong people, hold an end each, count to three, and away she goes straight down according to gravity. And it makes a hell of a noise when it slams into the earth.

Trees along our inland rivers often have scratches on their trunks. This is not from wild animals marking their territory, nor is it from vandals; these are marks that the trees themselves put there. These are tally marks which represent the number of squished fishermen.

And when a whole tree does let go, usually aiming for some poor sucker who only wanted to experience the bush, it's like a castle is crumbling (and who hasn't heard a castle crumbling. It's an awful sound.), or the continual rending of airline metal as it crash lands in the jungle. In slow motion. You've all seen this. And the hero struggles through the windscreen (or ripped fuselage hole, depending on which movie), then helps the in-need, raggedy-clothed, exposed-flesh female out, and then after a couple of _Aren't we lucky to be alives_ and _What happened anyways_ , escape into the jungle. He finds a convenient machete and uses it to slash their poorly written script away from the baddies. And she apparently has trouble following because he continually must hang onto her hand.

The tea trees on the Macintyre fall too, but these babies don't seem to break and smash, they don't appear to have branches bend slowly before entering a coffin, the entire tree just seem to go kerthunk, and because the Macintyre was so narrow, they fell all the way across and created a log jam. I didn't mind this because struggling over, pushing through or carrying around an obstacle are all a part of a canoe trip. It sorts out the soft townies from the hard bushmen and is a test of manhood and perseverance in the face of adversity in the wilderness.

After a couple of weeks of short but slippery portages, branches in my rib cage, and being tossed into a dangerously fast river around a log, I decided that I was still a soft townie, my manhood could take yet another hit and I was sorely lacking in any skills relating to handling adversity. And my new knee wasn't happy. I had two choices; get out or stay forever.

##### Epilogue

Jesus had two dads and he turned out just fine.

Catholic church sign. I might agree if I had Joe's version. And Mary's.

I got a ride back to Goondiwindi with a couple of fishermen (one had a striped coat) and I wrote down details of how we drove from the river back into Gundi, which of course I would have to use a mirror to find my way back with the ute to pick up the canoe. These notes were more than detailed, they were exquisite cartographic gems in written form, and are as follows:

Hop in car, seat belt on, lock door.

Fence on left

Crop further left inside this left fence

Trees right (with black kite circling)

A straight 50 kms

Converse politely in Vietnamese.

Left just before the wallaby

Another 6.4 kms then left turn into a large mailbox

Reverse, collect headlight glass, bumper bar and number plate

'Terewah road this way' Go that way

Right after twenty paces

Road sign. Cairo 14,167 kms that way. Don't go that way.

Another sign, this one a symbol indicating that large bounding marsupials may be in the area

11.50 am

160 kph (Jesus, slow down boys. Kangaroos remember?) Say swear words in Vietnamese.

Check seat belt is still on, door is still locked

Still speeding. Swear in English. Other language had no clout.

Check I'm still in the car, the seat belt is still on and the door is still locked

Right into Boomi Rd

Road trains drive fast and don't give way so watch out because here comes one

Left into Gundi

I exhaled, collected the ute, read my scintillating notes right to left, fluked my way back to the canoe, loaded everything and drove to Bourke.

It's a wonder I'm not seconded to edit Google Earth.

PART 4

#### 2015

### BOURKE TO LOUTH

##### 21

Bonanza books. Sat 9am-12pm

Be able to see what Hoss has been up to. A church sign in Brisbane.

Bourke and I are old friends. We met back in the seventies and he introduced me to a gorgeous girl. Now, because we have been so long apart (Bourke, this time), we had to re-acquaint ourselves. You know, resort to slightly embarrassing small talk, reflect on each other's foibles and remember whens, introduce newly acquired habits, faults and discriminations and in general, tell lies that would make Pinocchio look like a saint. Bourke clearly had the upper hand here because he was perfect.

Andrew Hull is the poet of Bourke. And that is an understatement. He does a session just out of town at Kidman's Camp and it involves his poetry, some songs and a wholesome meal. I met old folk, all settled in their fold-out camping chairs, their stubbies holed-in-one in the arm rest, who said, reasonably emphatically, 'Nah, don't like poetry, it's rubbish. Too girly.' Yet, this was their third visit to Bourke just to hear Hully. Andrew is a local man whose community work is well known in and out of Bourke. He said he would certainly drive me to the river and hang on to my ute until I returned. And from just below the town weir, on a low river, I headed to Louth, a section I had not done for nearly forty years.

Bourke to Louth via the Darling River is 196 kilometres. I know this because I had a brand new 200-kilometre tape measure. Just made it. After a few days blissful paddling, eating fish and watching red-tailed black cockatoos as they cried across the sky, I arrived at the 19-mile weir. To get around this one was to risk everything I've ever owned or ever thought about owning. I've been around, over and under many weirs, but this one made me nervous. It was hard to tow the canoe close along the right bank ready for unloading, because of logs, bogs and dogs. The carry up and over the concrete wall at the edge was steep and then I had to weave down through the massive sharp pink boulders, which had disaster written all over them.

The weir had a steep fish ladder, but the rungs had rotted, and the graduated spaces were choked with grass and rocks similar to the Khumbu icefall. Sir Edmund would have had trouble. Any fish attempting to get above the weir would need climbing ropes, pitons, ice-axes and help from Tenzing Norgay. Not to mention an Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon to alert the search and rescue services. And once the EPIRB was activated, which it would have to be, flying fish would come and circle overhead, yelling loudly through a fishophone, 'Hang on little yellowbelly, we'll save you!' But their identification would be incorrect because native fish don't leap up things like carp can. And the carp would then put a hanky over his mouth to muffle his reply, like you do on the phone sometimes, because fish can identify each other by voice. Didn't know fish talked underwater or even above water, did you? I've tried to strike up a conversation heaps of times and I know the little buggers can hear me, but the response is a little pissy, because fish can communicate by vibrating their bladder. I know how they feel; I do that early every morning, and no-one listens.

On any future canoe trips from Bourke, I would seriously consider starting below the 19-mile weir.

##### 22

Unfortunately, you are at the wrong Abbey Road. However, we can work it out and help you get back to the correct location. You will need a ticket to ride.

London transport sign. Come together and don't let me down.

The tent this time was large, I think four person, and was easy to erect. But it took just one end-of-year exam to realise I would throw it in the bin soon as I left the room and washed my shirt-cuffs and to promise myself never to buy a lightweight nylon piece of junk with fibreglass poles again.

It was a balmy afternoon, which I spent watching one-metre diameter raindrops plop on the still river, which scattered water hens and distant barking dogs. It was balmy enough for me to secure the tent fly with 11 mm rope, one metre pegs and an anchor. Red sky at night sailor's delight my arse.

During the ensuing wild electrical storm, before which I had also double-tied the canoe, laid the 60 litre drums on their side (lashed together with steel rope) and poured fifty billies of water onto the fire, I was snug and reasonably confident. However, the tent fly was ripped off and blown to western Canada. I got wet, as did everything inside the tent because under the fly was all mesh. The next morning after I had written to Edmonton and asked them to please keep an eye out, the wussey fibre-glass poles split at the pokey-in end, then the internal stretchy cord snapped. It's a miracle I'm not writing this in eastern Canada (I would have caught the train across from the Rockies).

After I had repaired the split enz, re-corded the poles and whinged a bit more, I hung the wet gear over the Hill's Hoist to dry. Then I was Finn-ished. One item was a book, and as I was almost finished it, I only aired the last section.

It was _A Shepherd's Life_ by James Rebanks. It's a love-letter to us from a man who tends sheep. Sounds like a simple tale, which it is, and while some of the writing seems raw, it is purity done straight from the heart.

He sees the beauty in little things, appreciates his heritage of some 600 years, loves his family (the current one also), his sheep and where he's at in life with these sheep, which has included time at Oxford and UNESCO. He is a physical person (I guess mud, snow, sheep and hills are giveaways), but the thing that I thought was powerful was when he said that sheep are cultural things, almost like art.

Is there not beauty in the land, in a way of life with its rhymes, reasons and rhythms, that has been overlooked by those who define our culture? Come on Darling River farmers tell us your story again. And come on the old people, tell us more of your stories.

##### 23

Drive safely

This gem is often just after roadworks. Of course, one must take this into consideration when driving. Who thought of this sign? Do they also endorse, Sharp knife, be careful? For crying out loud.

Before this trip I knew that the river was low, but I did not know that there was azolla. Not the azolla in itself because I had seen plenty of it during floods, but here we were on our low river following pelicans' pathways through the azolla. Just wish the pelicans would swim bloody straight.

Azolla is a native floating fern and, under optimum conditions, i.e. when it spots a red canoe, can double its area in a couple of days. Which it had been doing since I left Bourke. I just knew someone had been watching me. And it became thicker still because I was in another bloody weir pool.

Weirs along the Darling are walls across the river, made from concrete, rocks or dead fishermen, that impound a volume of water, but they cannot be used to regulate flows downstream (except for the main Menindee weir). They store water within the confines of the river channel (except for the main Menindee weir), forming weir pools that stretch for about 7-50 kms upstream. Weir pools are where the current appears non-existent, they are where the water is constantly at false levels and they are places where I cannot read the river. I hate weir pools. They serve no purpose on this planet except to cause grief to canoeists. Before you beat me to within a millilitre of my life with your, _We need weirs to provide water for communities and stock_ dribble, settle. Because where do fishermen like to fish? Right below a weir, that's where. Where are the most waterbirds? Right below a weir, that's where. And where are the happiest canoeists...?

It's not weirs I hate, it's the weir pools (especially the main Menindee weir pool).

I have met some nice people along the Darling over the past forty years. Only a couple really, but when I met Dave and Dawn Tutton, just before the above Louth weir because I was pretty-much permanently stuck in three-metre thick azolla in a bloody weir pool, I had to revalue niceness. 'Please stay here with us, we will feed you, give you a cold beer and drive you into Bourke tomorrow to get your ute.' There is a lesson in life right there, which is, you will get helped on the road and you may or may not see or pay back those particular helpers, but my God, if you don't show kindness to others, your soul will be condemned forever. Ask any traveller if I'm right.

##### Epilogue

Don't pass unless safe to do so.

And make sure your shoelaces are done up, there's two shillings tied in the corner of your hanky, and you have clean undies on. I want to say bad words. For crying out louder, who decides these signs are valid?

After many mistakes, tears, some serious pulling together from an editor and some amazing help from an indie publisher, I got my first book published in November 2015. It was _Drifting down the Darling_ and was about the seventies trip down the entire Darling. And I say first published just like that, and it sounds like, Yep, had my first tomato of the spring last week, but it's really, Oh my God, have a go at this will you. I am so proud that I achieved this. Maybe you're an experienced writer, a seasoned publisher or somehow involved in the game, but I tell you, that first time is sweet.

PART 5

#### 2016

### LOUTH TO TILPA

##### 24

Come in and eat before we both starve

Seen outside Warwick.

Louth to Tilpa via the Darling River is 86 miles. I knew this because I used a surveyor's chain. It was a bit tricky retrieving it on those deep holes and hauling it into the canoe, but I managed. A surveyor's chain is 22 yards long. Or 66 feet. Or, if you must annoy me, 22.12 metres. Or 100 links. (If you lost one, then found it, you could lay claim to finding the missing link.) There are 10 chains to the furlong and 80 chains to a mile. An acre is 10 square chains.

These measurements are historical but also common currency. The Australian Test cricketers know that a cricket pitch is 22 yards long. That knowledge, along with how far you can poke a car-key into the pitch, assists the Aussies work out the surface area of a piece of sandpaper. Horse racing in at least four countries still uses miles and furlongs. In Myanmar, the road signs still use miles and furlongs. And if you're thinking, Yeah, but in Australia, Imperial measurements are gone, we are in a metric world get with it, have a look at an analogue clock, a calendar, the diameter of high-speed drill bits, or beer served in pints. And get back to me.

Louth to Tilpa via the Darling is also 138 kilometres, and before I started, I had a few things to do.

So, you've published a book. And yes, it's on Amazon and Ingram, as a print-on-demand paperback and eBook, for sale at home for a few dollars more than cost, but then what? I had a dream, one of the forty thousand, (but really, dreams aren't yours to make; they come in when they know you have dared to understand yourself), that one day I would travel down the Darling, then visit Australia's major cities (coastal and otherwise) and towns, plus London, Paris and New York, not to mention Vilnius, Helsinki, Seoul and Reykjavik, telling people about this old river. Not so much its history or its geography but its spiritual nature. And, let's be upfront here, sell books and become a millionaire. And therefore, be able to write full time.

Keeping this in mind (the millionaire thing), I was on my way to Louth, via Bourke, to sell books at the school fete, go to the races and then paddle to Tilpa. To help me drive from Brisbane to Bourke, I had some help.

In Australia, we have this amazing service that is called Driver Reviver. There are volunteers who work in little sheds, usually near toilets and a park of some kind, and they offer you free Bushell's Tea, coffee, and Arnott's biscuits. They are there to encourage you to stop and rest after every two hours of driving. I love them because the volunteers always know someone from the old days.

'You know that Snowy McWilliam fellow from Coona?'

"Of course. He's Maureen's cousin's daughter's husband. Didn't he have a step!'

'Never mind his step, what about his spiral passes!'

I took the two-hour break thing to a new level because every two hours I would stop and sleep for about six hours. I used to be able to drive for three days straight but no more. Must be the way they make roads these days. Except for the road from Brewarrina to Bourke. It is so smooth, so open and so straight, I didn't have to do the Bushell's Tea thing. I put a brick on the accelerator and had a nap.

##### 25

'Have you washed your flaps lately?'

On the road to Goondiwindi.

In Bourke, Phil Johnston, the Council's Tourism and Development Officer, gave me great support and bought some books for the Information Centre. And he introduced me to Alice Bowers.

Alice was a young pommie girl, probably still is, and had ridden her pushbike from Sydney to Bourke. Not-to-mention, across England, Scotland, around Albania and through New Zealand. An absolutely lovely young lady, who mentioned that she was going to paddle down a portion of the Darling in a packraft (a blow-up kayak thing). She said she had a few detractors. She said, "'In what?'" they said.'

I said, 'Go, do not hesitate, do not listen, do it.' Or something like that. And never listen to inverted commas because they lie. And don't listen to atoms; they make up everything.

Adventurers should never heed any negative vibes, ever. They may come unstuck, get lonely, tired or worse, but let us pray that they keep adventuring regardless. And just maybe, all will be good anyway?

And I waited for the roads to open so I could drive to the Louth races.

The roads below Bourke along the upper Darling are dirt, usually black soil occasionally red. If it rains these roads pretty much become undriveable. City people exclaim, 'But wait, I have a 4WD, so I'll be right.' Not necessarily, particularly because it's an automatic (city people don't know how to drive a manual), and an automatic 4WD is a missile out of control. Plus, two things come into play here. Firstly, your city tractor has never been engaged in 4WD and therefore the front diff will seize as soon as you engage it and you will be stuck and either die of thirst, withdrawal from reality television or drown in your own tears of sorrow. Secondly, when you drive on black mud so sticky that it is going to be used as an adhesive in the construction of our new submarines, it builds up and clogs the tyre tread and therefore makes the four-wheel component redundant. The mud also jams under the mudguard and causes friction. Bushfires have been known to have started because of this. Even a manual 4WD from the bush will still slide off the camber and into the table-drain and gouge deep ruts into the road as it is doing so, in which water from the next rainfall will rest and the cycle starts all over again. A perpetual motion of rutting. Dear me. If the subs need to be drydocked there could be a problem. The Bourke Shire Council, which incorporates 4.2 million hectares, keeps its largely unsealed roads in good condition and issues reports if they are closed.

The Bourke to Louth road on the eastern side of the river was closed until two days before the races. It's around a hundred kilometres and it took me nearly three hours. I didn't know I had four gears. I made camp on the river bank at Louth and prepared myself for the Louth races. It is gruelling; not the races, but the preparation. The day before the races was the school fete and I had booked a stall to sell some books.

Louth is a small town next to the Darling River that was established in 1859 by T. A. Matthews. He named it Louth after his county in Ireland he had left when he was a child. He built a public house that was supported by the river trade and the local farmers. Currently there are around fifty residents but on race weekend, this number exceeds four thousand.

The Louth races are an institution, similar to a mental asylum, a jail or a law practice, except way more fun. And now that in 2016, I had a book to sell, I thought I'd first go to the school fete at Louth Public School, then experience the races. I do like a punt and fancy myself as a professional gambler, a high-roller who gets invited to all the world's gambling hotspots, like Las Vegas, Lacau and Louth. I have the skill, the feel, and the deep understanding of this sport of kings. However, all the horses I backed are still coming. Officials have sent out search parties and have left solar-powered LED lights along a trail of oats with sensor cameras ready to upload to satellites, but so far there has been no news.

But I sold a few books at the school fete. Book sales are like river level measurements, that is, relative to what they mean personally. I sold 32 books at a modest profit of $4.27 a book, minus expenses, which means I am currently $20,000 in the red but never mind.

In August 2016, at Shindy's Inn (the local, and only pub), the beer was cold, but the atmosphere and the sun were both warm. There were a few extra people (some four and half thousand of them), almost as many blue cattle dogs, and thousands of gorgeous young women in soft short dresses, wide-brimmed hats and long cowboy boots. Girls from our Australian cities, from Paris, Milan and New York, please come out to the Louth races to see real fashion, beauty and a natural glow of sexy. Not that city girls aren't pretty. Or fashionable.

But every country boy knows what I mean.

##### 26

If Noah only had two worms, how did he go fishing? Maybe he had made a rod for his back? Too sofishticated and therefore ruined his net prophets?

With the generosity of Kim and Frank Chandler of historic Dunlop Station, who looked after my ute, (around 15 kilometres below Louth), I put the canoe in just below the weir.

The water was muddy and roaring in a white foam of death. It's not exactly brown and white-water rafting but it will still drown you as quick as a blink. When you first hop in the canoe it's an excitement of danger. The first time for the year plus the swirling river all mean that you must take it easy. Balancing on a gumleaf is way easier than sitting in a canoe, and a flooded river is an equal opportunity employer. It is a work place that doesn't understand or even acknowledge discrimination, favouritism, or nepotism. The risk is evenly shared. There is no glass ceiling, wooden floor, or VJ pine lining the walls; she's all one construction of risk. You come unstuck, the full-time hooter sounds. Everyone gets the same pay, the same competition points, and anyone can die.

Winter along the Darling usually means plenty of wild greens to eat. And adding to the normal wild green crop, this year had copious amount of winter rain in western New South Wales. The tip top leaves of thistles were so sweet and full of nutrition they should be grown in broadacre. Warrigal greens may need a quick dip in boiling water, but they were nice. Dock, clover, dandelions, nettles, portulaca... I mean, the list goes on. But hang on, you do your own research because if you eat something and die, don't come crying to me, I've got enough to do.

There was clover along the banks, right down to the water's edge, and it was chest high. It covered the washouts and the gullies and the only way to walk safely was to follow kangaroo pads.

It was the Year of the green fields.

##### 27

Danger. Do not touch. Not only will this kill you, it will hurt the whole time you are dying.

Who funded the research is what I want to know.

The voyageurs were beginners. I mean, who sleeps under an overturned canoe on a bed of moss? How soft is that? I was going to prove to them that I was the man.

This year I had a new tent. It was a canvas swag tent, perhaps a bit small because I tend to thrash about a bit during the night, but when erected correctly, and the guys tightened, this tent, which had no fly, would withstand a nuclear attack, a panic attack or a heart attack. Notwithstanding (you see that?), it was time to unleash the Tough Bushman Evening - known hereafter as the no-tent-tonight. I wanted to be cool like the voyageurs for sure, but way tougher.

I threw rocks on the ground to sleep on. Sleeping on padded moss under an overturned birch-bark canoe? Who were these guys? Townie try-hards? Next they'd be taking electric blankets, percolators and perfume. 'Monsieur, would you like some camembert this evening with your Chardonnay?' For Heaven's Sake.

First, just after the glowing fire was lulling me into another universe, and being the sensible young man that I am, I put the fire out. I used four billies of water. Hiss and steam all you want baby, it's goodnight and we're all safe. I think paranoid might be an apt descriptor, although a firie I know said I was sensible. No-one has ever said that to me before. I couldn't ask him if he was married because his lovely wife was sitting next to him.

No sir, I was going bareback tonight, the wild night horses were mine to ride into the stars. As I watched owls, nightjars, and satellites taking my picture, I thought, My god, if I were any tougher I'd rust. Probably start telling bawdy French jokes any minute.

But it started raining, didn't it. And as I wrapped the blanket closer, I went straight into denial and began to sing French songs to mask my insecurity, fear and stupidity. And because the clover was now wet, I began to slide towards the river. As I clutched onto the four-metre-high clover to stop myself from falling fifty metres down a cliff face, the rain stopped, and the mozzies came. In their bloody thousands.

At first light I looked like a train wreck. I was wet through, my face was full of red spots, my eyes were puffy, and I felt like a bag of poo. Then of course the sun came out.

As I ate my baguette, croissant and crusty bread (and put my make-up and perfume on), I heard some French canoeists singing, 'Monsieur, t'as pas de couilles...va te faire enculer.'

This translates as, _Hey mister, there is a small chance you aint as tough as you think you are_. I think it says that.

Late one afternoon, Alice the pommie kayaker rocked up. We shared a billy of tea and talked about the river, travel and everything else. Alice was going to finish up at Tilpa, which was a few days away. Then, after she had got herself and her gear back to Bourke was going to ride down to Cobar across to Broken Hill, to South Australia and up through the centre of Australia to Darwin. As you do.

A short time later, Alice texted me from Darwin.

##### 28

Free beer tomorrow

Above the door of a country pub.

On the river, with no watch, radio, or direct link to old man time and his giant hour glass, time is measured differently. Apart from the usual, _Oh my goodness the sun has set I'd better set up camp_ , time is measured by distance covered, multiplied by predicted or actual rain, divided by the state of the river. For example, if I had said, _Today I shall only cover about four bends of the river_ (about three-hundred kilometres, - big bends out here), and if I had read the sky, which I'm okay at (come on, this is my three millionth trip out here), or more correctly, a fishermen had said, _My word mate, heavy rain coming Thursday_ , and I did need to be in Tilpa by Friday so I could hitch a ride back to my ute at Dunlop Station, drive back to Tilpa for the canoe, then up to Bourke for the Festival of a Thousand Stories, and if it did rain, then I'd be screwed. (I have sent this to a translator and hope to receive a response by next week at the latest. While I'm waiting, let's have a drink.)

I decided to do two day's travel in one. I'm talking way more than six hundred kilometres here. I called in to Kallara Station at 1.30 pm (their watch) after having paddled around 500 of these kms and was hurting slightly. But no, I said to anyone who would listen (currently three pelicans, two black cormorants and a small piece of riverweed), I will now go hard at it and get to Tilpa by dark and as an incentive, think of the cold beer and the soft bed at the end. But of course, the river decided to pool because it was above the Tilpa weir.

Above a weir, the river is like a still, flat lake. I think in this case it was about seven kilometres (the weir pool at Bourke is over forty kilometres) and as I was already dead, this made paddling quite onerous. No drifting, no sitting on bum and going with the flow, literally. This was hard yakka, and I don't like hard work. It is against my philosophy in life and certainly not in my genetic makeup. I struggled and paddled and thought I must do this, the rain is-a-coming. Not to mention a chilled glass full of amber that would be mine soon as I went through the doors of the Tilpa Hotel. I dragged, carried and swore around the Tilpa weir, then transported the canoe and gear, and I shot along in the new current without a weir pool. I strived, ached and paddled until after sunset, until I saw the bridge and then I knew I was home. As I cursed into the township a fisherman yelled out and asked me how I was and where was I going. I said tremendous and about another hundred yards and then I would need help to bury me. He laughed and said, 'See you at the pub.'

In previous years I had tied under the bridge and staggered through the thistles, daggy sheep, and partying fruit pickers to the Royal Hotel, Tilpa. I discovered there was now a brand spanking new concrete boat ramp. This was no drama for me at all, just a surprise because the bloody thing was about three kilometres long.

As I ate my Tilpa burger in the back bar while laying prone in my coffin, the fisherman who had called out to me, Daniel Rice, wandered in and said, 'Hey, see you made that last 100 metres.' We talked a while and the nice fellow that he was, he said, 'Tomorrow I'm driving up the west road, so I can drop you at Dunlop if you like.' He did, and I drove my ute back, reversed down the seven-kilometre boat ramp, loaded the canoe and was back in Bourke just as the next winter deluge started.

Using the time equation from before, I covered twenty kilometres of river distance multiplied by twenty-five millimetres of rain divided by the distances between Tilpa to Dunlop, Dunlop to Tilpa, Tilpa to Louth, then Louth to Bourke, (approximately 271 kilometres of dry-ish roads), which equals 1.85 hours, or roughly one hour and fifty minutes. I think I may need help.

##### 29

Free range eggs.

Bastards charged me.

The Festival of a Thousand Stories at Bourke is a celebration of storytelling, art, poetry and music on the banks of the Darling River at Bourke... the festival has grown out of Bourke's popular Poets Trek - a two-day experience tour that takes people on a literary journey through Australia's past in the footsteps of renowned poets Henry Lawson, Will Ogilvie and Harry 'the Breaker' Morant, who lived, worked and found inspiration in great, grey plains and red mulga paddocks of Bourke.

I went on the poet's trek and the leaders were inspirational and the trekkers wonderful company. We drove to Mt Oxley, which is around 50 kilometres from Bourke towards Brewarrina (with a few turns), and it is a mesa. It also has crater-like rocky formations which to this day have no plausible explanations as to why they are there. Mt Oxley is higher than an eagle's flight path and as mysterious as a cold day in the summertime. We then trekked to Brewarrina where we had a tour of the underground museum which celebrates local aboriginal history, including the fisheries (put this one on your list), bought some beer and then stayed at Beds on the Barwon, just a little way out of town. We shared book readings, stories and a genuine camaraderie because of our love of the bush. On our return to Bourke via Nevertire, we were stopped just off the road having smoko, when a huge road train came thundering upon us. He was going so fast through the bulldust, he produced a halo. The driver saw us, stopped and let his dust fall, then crawled past in first gear.

Trekker Joy McKean is sometimes known as Slim Dusty's wife. Joy came on the trek without announcement, just the same curiosity as all others. Musician Frank Povah performed regularly throughout the trek. Over lunch at Mt Oxley, Joy and Frank got to chatting over music. Frank has an excellent knowledge of Australian music and folk lore but, somehow or other, didn't manage to work out who he was talking to. After a while, and to his deep embarrassment he asked, innocently, "And what was your husband's name?" Overnight Frank composed a piece of music, which he played on his autoharp the next day over lunch before the trek disbanded. He called the piece, "And what was your husband's name?"

From _Stories of Bourke: Past, Present and Future_. Graeme Gibson. 2016

I did a meet the author talk at the Bourke library and it's a weird feeling to be there, at the front of a group, who have come specifically to listen to you. Before this talk, I had done several talks at libraries in Brisbane, assorted schools and various other places. I have compiled a list of the most common questions and have included sensible answers.

Q: How often did you wash?

A: Not very

Q: Where did you leave the ute?

A: Put her in neutral and pushed.

Q: Isn't the Darling the same, like all the way?

A: We'll talk later.

Q: Do you go fishing?

A: Don't eat pears, they're squishy.

Q: Did you ever want to stop?

A: Yes, every night.

Q: Is imitation merely a comparison of insecurities?

A: Wha'?

Q: Do you have an alcohol problem?

A: Only when I run out.

Q: Did you ever get lonely out there?

A: Why focus on the old river?

Q: If you could go out to dinner with any fictional character, who would it be?

A: How about T. E. Lawrence, my great-great-grandfather or my childhood memories?

Q: Hang on... never mind. Does doubt bring you strength? Does too much choice confuse you?

A: Uncertainty feels like the only thing that's certain, and yes it does. No, only if the choices are rubbish.

Q: What must every true Australian have?

A: Racist tendencies? Sex?

Q: Word association time. Alumni ( _Mining FIFO_ ), Rabbi ( _little furry creatures_ ), Taxi ( _Just after June 30_ ), Ski ( _Blue stuff up there_ ), Alkali ( _Not running out of beer_ ), Radii ( _utes need these in the bush_ ), Stati ( _NSW, Vic_...)

##### Epilogue

Back in and around Bourke, the rain continued. If the roads opened before the year 2525, and if man was still alive, I would drive to Hungerford and paddle down the Paroo River to Wanaaring.

Or if man has taken too much and given nothing back, then it all may be torn down.

PART 6

#### 2016

### HUNGERFORD TO WANAARING ON THE PAROO RIVER

##### 30

Henry Lawson, one of our national poets, walked from Bourke to Hungerford in the summer of 1892/3 and said, _'Bourke and Wills found Hungerford, and it's a pity they did.'_

Normality is a paved road: It's comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.

Vincent van Gogh. I like that. That quote is a huge metaphor on Vincent's society, but not ours; ours is perfect.

The Paroo River starts in south-western Queensland and is roughly 640km long. You will see on a map that it flows into the Darling just above Wilcannia, but it doesn't do this often. In fact, it has done this only four times between 1900 and 2010. Apparently, it is the last free-flowing and unregulated river in the northern Murray-Darling Basin. I did my best to ignore the two man-made rock weirs I went around. I'm hoping the authorities don't because I told them where they were.

Australia ditched its colonies and became a Federation in 1901 and since then has adopted a few innovations that by and large support its own inept, corrupt and contempt-ible governments, and a few that attempt-ed to benefit society, such as with libraries, parks with free Tai-Chi lessons and meter maids. And eucalypts. And let us not forget one of the most recent additions, the Murray-Darling Basin Authority (MDBA), which does its best to umpire our eastern inland rivers. But the MDBA either didn't count on, or didn't care about, two recalcitrant states, New South Wales (NSW) and Queensland (THE-Two Heads Each) who don't play fair. These two states have and control most of our eastern inland rivers and according to them, South Australia does not exist. Maybe, like the World Cup Football's Video Assisted Referee (VAR), cricket's Decision Review System (DRS), the MDBA needs a review system called the ACDE (the Australian College of Dental Education), because the MDBA has no fucking teeth.

Australia currently has three levels of government and they come with a rich menu at the _All you can take from the Trough_ restaurant:

1 _Entree_ ; either deceit, overpaid alliances and hired lobbyists.

2 _Mains_ ; a selection from:

a) an encouragement of big business, miners and other such dodgy corporations (who assist with the running of government by donating vast sums of money and get massive windfalls)

b) a lack of statesmanship lavishly piled high with limited skill and bovine droppings

c) a portion of media (which is often given access to government decisions before they are made)

d) a skewer of tax rules (comes with a side-dish of Bahamas or Singapores, whichever is in season)

e) an attack on a section of society, which is often unable to defend itself, although is often deserving of the higher cask wine prices, reduced access to dentists and the occasional drug test because of its own shortcomings,

Start with the outside cutlery.

3 _Sweets_ ; either, or:

a) a full plate of entitlement (snapped up quickly by politicians)

b) a large serve of hypocrisy (plenty to go around from a wide selection, so take your time)

c) inconsistency, which, while being prepared in the same blender as b), has its own unique footprint

d) a conflict of interest (you pay for this twelve months afterwards, hoping that the owners will have forgotten)

On the kiddies' menu, alongside the usual chicken nuggets, fairy bread and chocolate crackles, are toasted sangers. Fillings available are, Put downs, Shuttups or Why are you heres.

Babies are welcome but are discouraged from drinking milk from its natural source. Breastfeeding is still frowned upon by certain members of Federal Parliament. One mum breastfeeding her baby was ejected in 2003, I hope the baby went too, and 2017 was the first-time breastfeeding occurred in Federal Parliament. As a lot of French women say, 'Breasts aren't for babies.' Bring that formula in ladies.

All items on the menu are pre-packaged, tasteless, and can make the consumer disgustingly ill. Luckily the menu is written on a chalkboard.

The Murray-Darling Basin Authority Plan came on board in November 2012. It aims to share the water between all users, including the environment, which does need a bit of water every now and again. Funny, that. It is a lofty plan that, if properly administered and policed by the States (which it is not) would be fantastic. Admittedly, it's a hard one to get right and there have been many books, papers and late-night phone calls explaining why it's not been got right. Simply put, the Darling River water is over-allocated. Even the un-Darling River water is over-allocated. Talking about flood plain harvesting, which is a bad practice because it deprives the wider environment of its benefits. The Darling needs its billabongs filled, it needs the plains brimming and it needs the flood water to go further downstream.

I hate you Queensland and New South Wales.

Australia's fixed line telephones have areas, each specified by a code. For example, if I wanted to phone someone in another area (maybe another state) I would first dial the Trunk Access Code (which is a **0** ) followed by the area code (then the specific eight-digit local number). For example, New South Wales has **02** , Victoria **03** and Queensland has claimed **07** ; a short walk away from **007** status.

So, if I were in Brisbane, which is where I am right this minute, and I wanted to phone a landline in say Bourke, which just happens to be in New South Wales, I would phone **02 6872 2544** (which is the actual number of the Port of Bourke Hotel). This system has worked reasonably well thus far. But as it is in life, there are states that break the rules. They give many and varied excuses as to why they do this, but it is clear that they are teenagers bucking the system, they are recidivist miscreants, and they are basically unsure of their status (you see that?).

For example, Wentworth, in New South Wales by the skin of its teeth, has stolen Victoria's 03, and Broken Hill, in New South Wales, has appropriated South Australia's 08. Just for the record, Broken Hill is a little over 47 kilometres from the South Australian border, but the townspeople so want to be in South Australia that I have actually seen hordes with sixteen-inch hawsers, attempting to drag the border closer. The hawsers hang from their hawseholes. Before you get too carried away, the word 'hawser' is from Middle English, Anglo-Norman French, Old French and Latin. This lineage isn't merely a win and place bet, this is a quinella, a trifecta and a first four all rolled into one. And using my superb translation abilities gleaned from years of perusing betting tickets, the scrawl on the back of public toilet doors and several suburb's worth of graffiti, 'hawser' means, '... a person unhappy in his current geographical situation be it land or sea.'

So get that into you.

And this is where the town of Hungerford comes into play. It is situated pretty much on the border between New South Wales and Queensland and because of its history pre-Federation (when some of the town was actually on both sides of the border, just like Mungindi is today), an association with Bourke, Lawson the poet, the Cobb and Co stagecoaches, and my own outstanding belief system, which is usually based on how I think the world should be not how it really is, I thought Hungerford was actually in New South Wales.

And so when I was in Bourke (staying at the Port of Bourke Hotel, phone number just back there a bit) I phoned the Royal Mail Hotel in Hungerford to ask about the Paroo River, and the area code was **07** , which is clearly a Queensland area code ( **07** **4655** **4093** just in case you need it. If you didn't believe me, shame on you). But I thought nothing of this because of the Wentworths and Broken Hills of the world. But I was wrong. The only time in my life. Hungerford is in Queensland. This may not be a surprise to you but it sure was to me.

No wonder Aussies are shying away from landlines and moving to mobiles. It's way less confusing.

Paris is 16,138 kilometres north-west from Hungerford (Lawson had planned this as his second great trek), and Hungerford is approximately 213 kilometres north-west of Bourke. It took me five hours to drive from Bourke to Hungerford. From Hungerford to Paris, using the aforesaid distance, you can't drive. The roads are too wet. Lawson would have made it though.

In December 2005, Andrew Hull, the Bourke poet, writer, artist and nice man, walked from Bourke to Hungerford. Here is the end section from his piece, _To Hungerford with Henry._

I know Lawson better than I ever wanted to. I understand the horror he spoke of, and when he says "Oh it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the outback"... I can agree as only a man who knows can agree. I re-read his works over the next few days and am astounded at how much of the experience is reflected in his writing... I know myself. I know that there is a hard place within me that is of the country, and is of me. Something that is solid as stone but much stronger, born of flesh but inflexible, eternal and unmovable and when I fall, I will have will always have somewhere to land.

I'm not known for my speedy driving. Must be because I sit low in the seat, lean forward and squint. The muddy sections meant slipping, sliding and slurping (that's before I opened the ute door). I had a full load and there were millions of bloody corrugations. If you drive fast over corrugations, say at around three-hundred kilometres per hour, you won't feel a thing. It's like driving on a cushion of air. It's where that English inventor tested his Hovercraft with an empty cat food tin (inside a coffee tin), a vacuum cleaner and a pair of kitchen scales.

But if you drive mid-speed over a corrugated road, your teeth will fall out. Old folk, male, wrinkled and possibly ex-military, use metal-detectors to seek out the gold fillings because they (the teeth) have bounced out through the open driver's side window. Driving mid-speed over corrugations is also where the late-night television advertisements got their ideas for weight-loss machines. You know, the ones where you strap a wide belt around your sloppy guts, turn the machine on and voila, you walk out all svelte and nubile. I drive slowly and it's quite pleasant. Up and down, up and down... Ginger capsules are also handy.

Why don't they put the corrugations parallel with the road and not perpendicular to it? Make life a lot easier. If they put two on each side of the road you could run trains, which would then be called road trains. It's a shame I don't get recognition.

When I drove through open black soil paddocks, they were full of water to the edge of the road. This was a wet season to remember. And you might think, Oh yes, those bloody farmers will now whinge that they are having too much rain. I realise losing crops, stock and fruit trees is devastating but I'm not convinced about the whingeing thing. Farmers will be inconvenienced and annoyed for sure, and when the pain-in-the-bum roads are closed, they get frustrated. But farmers never whinge; they merely point out. And I'm guessing they will tolerate and deal with excessive rain and floods instead of drought and bushfire anytime. And so, on the way to Hungerford I drove through an English countryside with coolibahs, convicts and cangaroos.

Then I came into red soil country, except it was not red, it was orange. The orange out there is stark but not a desolate harsh stark, it's a soft desert-orange stark. And what a magnificent colour it is. Contrast that orange with the blue sky, throw in a couple of yellow sunflowers and you realise this is where van Gogh came on holidays to paint one of his now famous works, the lost sunflower. History states that it may have been Arles or Paris, but I'm here to tell you that the controversy is now over. Vincent was hard at work beside the road to Hungerford just before he died. If he had stayed a few more years, he would have met Henry Lawson.

'Goedemorgan.'

'Gidday cobber, why are you painting a bloody sunflower? Hey, got any grog?'

'It is so in the future people will not know where I painted it.'

'I understand that. I'm out here too and nobody knows. Or cares. They sent me out here to get dry. Sure is working because we need rain. You got any grog or what?

Right slap bang in the middle of the road was a huge gate. My first thoughts were, I've made a wrong turn and I'm on someone's farm road. But then I read the sign, _You are about to enter Queensland. If you do so, close the bloody gate after you or else._ And there, just beyond this gate, and therefore in Queensland, was Hungerford.

This gate is one of the many ways into Queensland from New South Wales, and the six-foot high fence on both sides, I later found out, is over 5,000 kilometres long. Truly it is. Nearer to 6,000. It is said that the fence keeps the dingoes and wild dogs out of New South Wales. There are two unfairnesses here and one small error that need to be addressed.

Firstly, why should Queensland farmers lose their sheep, calves and chooks to dingo attacks and not those in New South Wales? Secondly, dingoes, which apparently aren't true natives having been brought in by humans some 4,000 years ago (and when, pray tell, does the term 'native' begin to apply? My mob has been here only since the early 1830s so I'm no chance), are now a part of the ecology and will kill foxes and cats, not to mention help to keep large marsupial numbers in check. Sort of. No wonder there are so many foxes and feral cats along the Darling. Is this fair to New South Wales? (And god knows, they need help down there.)

The minor error in all this is that the dingo/wild dog thing is not the real reason for the construction and subsequent maintenance of this six-foot high, over 5,000-kilometre-long fence. It was really built to keep rugby league players from New South Wales out of Queensland. Simple as that. You won't read this in the Government historical documents, sports' roundups or tourist brochures but it's fair dinkum, just ask any Queenslander. And as you face the gate from the New South Wales side, the sign says _Pull_ , and the silly buggers push and get nowhere, just like they do during a football game.

And that is why when the state of origin is on, the New South Wales's players, cheer squad and lawyers fly to Queensland.

At the Royal Mail Hotel, Hungerford, I was welcomed by Carol. She said that a bit later some locals would be in who knew the Paroo pretty well and could help with advice on the swamps and channels, and more importantly, where to put the canoe in. This last bit was more important because the Paroo, which runs around Hungerford, was surrounded by wet gullies and boggy roads. When I told Carol I was going to drive the ute to the causeway just north of town (with the Paroo running under it) and put the canoe in there because it had a nice solid gravel off-road section, she asked, 'What about the six-foot netting fence you'll meet in a little bit?'

'No worries, I have fencing pliers.

The next morning, Graham from the hotel made a hot breakfast so huge I couldn't fit it in the camera's wide-angle lens. He drove me and the ute to the river on a gravel road below town and was kind enough to look after my ute. Thank you, Carol and Graham.

##### 31

Caution. This sign has sharp edges. Do not touch the edges of this sign.

Seriously?

The Paroo, below Hungerford anyway, is a series of channels through wooded areas, dense lignum swamps and the occasional long, deep waterhole.

The channels defy compass points, the earth's rhythms and even gravity itself; they confuse America's GPS readings, and were the reason the planet changed magnetic poles way back then.

Mat Wolnicki came to the Paroo River. His book, _paroo river life_ (2007), recounts his two-month trip driving down the Paroo. It is a personal journey but also a sharing of stories from the communities that live along the river. He said, after going for a walk across the Paroo channels, and getting somewhat lost, ' _It's the bloody Bermuda triangle, Twilight Zone and Picnic at Hanging Rock all in one hit.'_ I get that. Some channels seem to flow the wrong way no matter how you try to rationalise it. And then when you see these irreverent channels again, the little buggers are flowing in the opposite direction.

The swamps on the Paroo are the Macquarie Marshes with attitude (minus the reeds and cumbungi), the Mississippi Delta with a headache and nothing like the Danube Delta. They are the food left in the back of the fridge that could be used as an antibiotic, they are the sump oil in the 44 in the back of the shed and they are the _What time was my appointment?_ Crazy, needing medication, forgetful and confusing.

The Paroo swamps feature a shrub that is innocent looking but deceptively strong and hardy. It is called _Muehlenbeckia florulenta_ , or as we know it, lignum. It is a perennial shrub growing to 2.5 metres in height with bucket-loads of thin, intertwined and tangled branches. Towards the end of these thin branches it is soft and bendy, but at the base it is so solid and strong, that rhinoceri, tyrannisauri and any large animal ending with the letter 'i' (alive, extinct or in transition) wouldn't make an impression. (This base thing is important a bit later.) The leaves are thin and narrow, and like a lot of western vegetation, are a grey-green colour. Its roots go down a long way, so much so that they have been seen in the North Atlantic Ocean, which, if you tunnelled through from Hungerford, is where you would surface, literally. I used a long drill-bit through a globe to find this out. Lignum is resilient and can survive floods, droughts and salinity; it can cope with limited access to Pay TV, slower than promised National Broadband Network speeds and warm beer. That is tough.

Be handy if citrus could be grafted onto these bushes. (Get all this down, it'll be in the exam.) Lignum forms thickets so dense, entire cities have been found inside. I suspect Atlantis may be out there somewhere. If it had thorns like Bougainvillea or a climbing rose, the Paroo, and indeed large portions of western New South Wales, would be safe from humans for a bit.

A problem arose, or should I say, fell, when the water-level dropped, because then the water flowed through the base of the lignum, which as indicated before, was like trying to penetrate steel rods. Next time I come out, I'll be bringing bolt-cutters, angle-grinders, and explosives.

The waterholes were often two kilometres long, a few hundred metres wide, and were a blessing. They were a relief from Peer Gynt's misguided irresponsibility, they were light when light had been missing, they were air to breathe when all you had been breathing was panic and they were truly an inland beauty.

The river started with a pattern: channels, swamp, channels, lagoon, in that order, but this quickly changed into a free for all. When it comes to creating, facilitating and prolonging not anxiety but an insecurity that can only be quietened by the personal mantra (repeated daily 8,000 times), 'I am alive, I see current, I am going forward', this river was a doozy. Just when you thought you were winning, the pattern changed.

Sometimes when you're in a special place, like Arles, Paris or West Dubbo, you may pinch yourself and say, 'Am I really here?' I wasn't so sure about the pinching thing regarding one of those places, I mean, Paris is pretty boring really, but here I was on the Paroo River. And it was fast, muddy, and it tasted sweet.

I wasn't sure how long I had to get to Wanaaring because the Paroo is not a deep river and its flood waters were dropping fast. Say, two weeks?

##### 32

Shit road. Careful driving techniques are advised.

If you were an Aussie living overseas and you read that outback road sign, you would weep with homesickness.

Confluence usually refers to a meeting place of rivers. For example, the Murray and the Darling. (And of course, we know that one of those isn't really a river. It's an irrigation canal, and the other one is fast approaching the same status.) However, the Oxford-Australian has missed an opportunity to widen this concept.

I was in a place of bird confluence; a meeting place of avian specialness on a new river that had brought together some of my favourite species. I saw pink cockatoos on hollows, black-breasted buzzards sweeping over the trees (and found a buzzard's nest way back off the river), and a black falcon harassing everyone in sight because he could. There were little eagles, calling their ' _swe chu swe chu_ ' and it seemed they were always a shy bird. But now I realised that no, these eagles weren't shy, they were elusively powerful. Why _swe chu_ yourself if you don't have to? They came into their nests via the tradesman's entrance and meant to do so not because of a class war, but because of a need to be on top, a confidence that said, I will show myself when I choose even if I am a plumber. And to whom I choose. A bit precious perhaps. Little eagles often call from away up high. When they do fly low, say under 10,000 feet, they usually attract an escort or two. A friendly bird (occasionally a wood-swallow) would act like a tugboat does, with perhaps a little more vigour, and apart from trying to remove the little eagle's head, would try to guide the eagle away from its riverine nesting area.

I saw a bronzewing making its booming noise; I actually saw it. He was on an open branch and was making no effort to conceal himself. Probably just practising his ventriloquism. I saw a peaceful dove lean its head forward and puff its throat out to make a call. Sort of like it was trying to throw up. Seen it done plenty of times not that long after a football grand final.

'Hey, look at him, will you. He's gonna be sick again.'

'Yeah, but he makes a nice cooing sound.'

The Paroo had no black kites, not a one. Because they were all back on the Darling that's why (the bird guidebooks say otherwise). Out here the parrots have deep rich colours. The cockatiels are a darker grey than their relatives from Gunnedah to Dubbo; the galahs are a darker pink and not because of age, and the budgies are a fluro lime green. The rest of Australia has a watered-down version of parrot colour, one not from the true artist's palette, with his thick deeply rich oils, impastoed on a canvas backgrounded in orange and blue. And yet within this bold richness, this individual contrasting explosion, there is a parrot that is striking in its difference to its eastern relatives by having a more delicate hue, and that is the pink cockatoo. They are more than a pretty pink, they are sensual, they are soft, and they are so pink they are almost white. A lighter shade of pale one could say.

After the camp has been set, there is great joy in just sitting and watching. There is no rush, no expectations, just a Let's see what you can see. And as I sat and watched the beautiful bird world next to the Paroo, there were two billys and two kids on an island opposite my camp.

##### 33

Beer doesn't ask silly questions... beer understands.

Goats will walk in water, but they grizzle if they must do so. I have seen them at country farm produce stores buying gum boots. If you reckon having to buy two pair of boots is tough, consider the spider family or even a nest of centipedes. Or millipedes. 'Excuse me, could I please have 500 pairs of gumboots? What size you ask? Kidding me. Listen, I want all the same colour too. And while you're at it, my ten thousand siblings need fitting too.'

If a goat gets stranded on an island he is like a fat dog sitting on a burr - howls but does nothing. The four goats sat on burrs and howled. Incessantly. Their island was a narrow strip about 30 metres long and had been nibbled down three kilometres past the earth's crust. The water level on this Paroo River was dropping fast, in fact, the previous night it had gone down two feet. Which was of some concern to me but not our goats.

The two kids were told to have a break from gambolling on their tablets and play outside.

'Go on, get out of here, you kids. Back in my day, we were hunted out of the house straight after breakfast and if we ventured inside before dark we'd get a clip round the ear. And look at you lot. You just sit there swiping your muddy hoof across a screen, playing goatboys and sending dirty photos on goatchat.'

The kids didn't need the lecture, they were glad to be away from their nagging fathers. They splashed through the newly lowered water and leapt onto dry land, which was not surrounded by water (except that is, for the stuff that encircles our continent). Our two fathers, George and his brother Bob, looked on. And did nothing. They went back to sitting on burrs and watching cricketers play with yellow bits of rough paper. The two kids called out, 'Comeon! It's ok.' They also sent messages on blitter (they send bleats). The billys, one with seven foot outward-twisting horns the other had five-foot curved horns (truly), finally listened and hesitantly followed.

George said, 'Knew I would find a way off that prison island. I should be called Papillon the Great Goat.'

Bob interjected, 'That is so unfair of you to take the credit. I will do something once we're out that will taunt the police and I will be more famous than you.'

Then, at sunset, all four trudged back to their narrow island.

This is called stock-home syndrome. And Bob never got to send that postcard.

##### 34

Technically, alcohol is a solution.

Seen outside a pub. There can be nothing more to say.

How long is a piece of string? As long as you like. Particularly if it's between two jam tins that were being used as a telephone system from, say, Bourke to Hungerford. Or Hungerford to Paris. How many channels in the Paroo River? As many as you like. There you'll be in one of these channels, cruising quite fast, dodging low branches, bouncing over partly-submerged hippos and feeling even a wee bit smug because you're still inside the canoe, with your head still attached to your shoulders (I used to play rugby league in the engine-room, so I have a limited slip-diff, three universals and twin dipsticks instead of a neck). Then your channel divides and you have two seconds in which to choose a new one and then your new channel divides into five channels. I always chose channel number four. Four obvious reasons. You get that one?

Even though the channels are hell on wheels, any insecurity can be quietened by an affirmation, repeated to yourself in front of a mirror, 'I am still going downstream (mind you, through steel lignum, over bent logs, broken branches and migrating diprotodons) and I am relatively healthy and sort-of safe.' By the end of day three, courtesy of the local vegetation, I had enough sticks and logs in the canoe to see me in firewood for a month.

I always carry a mirror. It's invaluable for self-reflection.

Fast-flowing channels, huddled close yet still independent (like a child who has left home but may soon return), are the dark scary world of a dark distant European fairy tale, and even, like our aforementioned child, a little alone. One channel veered a right-angled west and never came back. Probably feeding the fabled inland sea the early explorers searched for. You may scoff at my incredible observation, and I accept your scoff. However, save another scoff for not the explorer's misconception, their bravery, not at their incredible toughness - usually in summer - but because they disparaged, dismissed or even shot the original people. The idea of an inland sea was a real one, and to my thinking pretty sensible when you see how our inland rivers carry on. And bravery is bravery and toughness possibly both, particularly in the searing inland heat of Australia (a warm-up for later), but inhumaneness posted as either or as an excuse of the time, is an act of gutless treachery.

The water level was dropping faster than before, and even though a local had said that more water was coming from Queensland, I never felt settled because it would take too long to catch up. Occasionally I laboured under the impression/ misapprehension that I was doing okay, but the low levels, the mess of lignum, the trees growing in the water and the growing fear became a crime scene. There was yellow and black tape looped loosely through the trees. I saw chalk outlines, people wearing plastic gloves, forced smiles and white lab-coats, sassy chicks on computers and photographers popping flashes getting evidence to be used against me.

'Where were you last Tuesday between 2 and 4 pm?'

'Lost in a channel on the Paroo, belting my shins, crying tears of despair and loneliness. Why?'

'Do you have an alibi? Witnesses? No, didn't think so. You have been charged with wearing active wear and will appear before the judge. Hopefully in jeans and a tee-shirt. You can have one phone call.'

'You really think I'll get reception out here? Wait, don't go. If I dob, can I have witness protection? You know, you hide me in an obscure neighbourhood, buy me a new telly, and a slab of Cooper's?'

'Sure.'

'The first illegal rock weir is...'

##### 35

The conservation movement is a breeding ground of Communists and other subversives. We intend to clean them out, even if it means rounding up every bird watcher in the country.

John Mitchell, Attorney General under Nixon. Birdwatchers are rarely appreciated or acknowledged, and they hate liars and barely tolerate capitalists, or indeed society itself. They are all weird and therefore deserve to be watched. By the way, all bird watchers know that birds can also watch the watcher who is watching the watcher.

_'Beauty does not equal bravery, it is not humility and it is not inner peace. It is certainly not working for the service of others.'_ This is on the back cover of _The Consumer's Guide to Capitalism, Screwing others less fortunate and Destroying the Planet_ , as personal deficits. It's a new book. Came out last week and was written by Nerkel, Frump and Pugabe (who will end their careers as either CEOs, diplomats in a foreign country or as dunny-cart workers) and published by what's left of the European Union (last time I looked it was Germany). It has a Foreword by Australia's Liberal-National Party, One Nation Party and the Australian Labor Party, and it has a Preface by the Business Council of Australia, several women's magazines who hate fat people, and the Idiot's Guide to inventing the policy of Drug Testing Dole Recipients, Students and Single Mums. The Afterword will be written later, after the dust has settled (when the Arab spring will seem like the Teddy Bear's Picnic, Brexit will be a children's illustrated book and the Purple Revolution will be looked to as a role model of protest), not by those who worship a yellow metal, but by those who have love, kindness and grace; by those who share and tread lightly and appreciate beauty.

Beauty is straight prettiness, foibles of character, and it is voice. There are no books that come close to describing these traits. Authors tend to focus on one or the other, or go straight for the esoteric, which I can't even spell correctly, let alone understand its meaning. The birds along the Paroo River have got beauty covered in spades. Even in a couple of shovelfuls. And so, it came to pass that there was a contest on the Paroo.

This contest combined aspects of Western New South Wales has no talent, The Eggs Factor, and The Song, and rolled them into one. This contest was called, The Paroo's Got Beauty.

The judges had fake tans, false eyelashes, and were all tits, tatts and tiaras. The girls scrubbed up alright too. Their limited loose clothing enabled things to wobble, jiggle, be exposed and even have things to hang out, including narcissism, false hopes and false fame based on vicariousness, and an over-indulged excitement like a pre-school kid's first day at school. They (the girl-judges) made wardrobe malfunction look like a normal everyday happening in post-war suburbia. The man-judges (this is where the recent acronym LGBTI becomes irrelevant, because for starters why should society categorise its members on their sexuality? Why not just have Good Person or Ungood person? Don't know why people don't listen to me), sported three-day growths, shaved legs and stockwhips. This was a magnificent combination of judges, the best representation of society not seen since Pharlap won the cup carrying 63 kilograms in 1930. Throw in a few under 25s, some hippies and a couple of refugees and we might yet have a democracy.

The judges said, 'Let's workshop this, Let's have a brainstorm.' Which would have been fine except there was no space and no brains with which to accomplish these two trendy, sheep-following, pseudo ideas, so they fronted for work on a guess and a luke-warm cup of coffee. Nothing worse.

Some birds who were favourites were knocked out in the early rounds.

**Red-rumped parrots**. 'Okay, you're pretty, but you do realise pretty can be compromised by commonality when what it really needs is individuality. For starters, you have far too many look-alikes for you to make an impression on us. And the reason we didn't give you a Yes from us is that you continually brag about the red on your arse. Haven't you even heard about them pesky reds under the bed? Or playing Dominoes? _Out_ , or we'll invade your north-south country. Again.'

**Wood ducks**. 'We suspect _The Nutty Professor_ and _The Three Stooges_ were based on your family. Did you get any royalties by any chance? Shame. You may also have inspired Monty Python, the Goons and the Wiggles, but really? Maybe you should consider going back to being known as a goose. We did some research on Gooseapedia and discovered that you have Tourette's. We now understand why you do what you do. You know, the head flicking, the big swear words, the occasional loud honk. However, as much as we feel for you, that sort of behaviour cannot be tolerated. This is a family show. Sorry, duck off.'

**Black-breasted buzzard**. 'For God's sake, did you really think that dropping a rock onto an emu egg would make you a chef? I mean, we like out there but that is just ridiculous. We can understand how lamb shanks and mashed potato are the new thing, we get it that sardines on toast are the next big thing, but little soldiers dipped in raw emu egg? Please. For food, we give you 0.05. For service, 0.02. For drinks, 0.00. for Atmosphere, okay 9.99. Overall, not good enough. Go back to your indecisive raptor category.'

**Kookaburra**. 'Your voice, if we can call it that, is friggin awful. It has no melody, it has no nothing. The alarm clock of the bush? God, I'd rather sleep in. And you have somehow sleazed your way into Tasmania (and have become right-wing environmental vandals, throw plastic bags into the ocean and deny uncomfortable truths), Western Australia, and New Zealand. And to make matters worse, your head looks like a Pteranodon's, the way you wreck termite nests is appalling, and the destruction you cause to rolled-up mincemeat left for the magpies is not sustainable. Pack your bags.'

The judges decided to have a luke-warm coffee break. They ordered a mixture of flat whites, short blacks and tall yellows. 'Well,' Phillip said, 'this voice element isn't going well.'

Another put in with, 'Well Phillip, voice can be more than beauty. It can be power, quirkiness, skill, and danger. Think Cillian Murphy in _Peaky Blinders_. That man is extremely good-looking, extremely spunky and extremely dangerous, all at the same extremely time (four man-judges and three girl-judges fell to the ground, swooning in a rapture of lust, the collective noun being _rust_ ). Yet, as appealing as this is, it doesn't come close to matching an Aussie bloke dressed spectacularly in footy shorts and a navy-blue singlet on the dog-and-bone saying "Maaaate!" Now that, is attractive. Which is why women worldwide just adore an Aussie man who extends his long vowel. An Australian accent is far sexier than a French or an Irish one, everyone knows that. By-the-way, do you happen to have the address of Murphy's barber?'

There was a silence, one of those that speaks loudly. Then another judge opined, 'Jesus Trevor, what did you just say?'

**Owl**. 'A two-note monotone nocturne is all you got? You ever think of coming across to the light side? Go back to sleep, for Christ's sake.'

**Brolga**. 'Why are you here? When you can dance like that, there is nothing else you need in life. Another sports car, a third beach house or even first place in a competition would be meaningless. Therefore, you're out.'

**White-browed wood swallow**. 'We like certain members of your family, as you will see shortly, but the way you tilt your head and go _squeak squeak_ (which is far more annoying than that blonde grunting tennis player) and wag your tail from side-to-side reeks of dandyism. We don't know what that means either. You're too much _look at me, and a lot more keep looking at me_. There are enough show ponies here thanks. _Gorne_.'

**Raven**. 'We understand your frustration being confused with a crow, like, all the time. But we've read your Curriculum Vitae and I quote, "Owns a Georgian mansion in London, a castle in France and a shearing shed just south of Bourke." We have to ask, when did you become a real estate agent? Never mind, you're not eligible anyway. Actually, you're not eligible for a lot of things. Like honesty ("Has a tennis court, two clothes lines, a new toilet and a landscaped garden."). We did some research. The tennis court was a brick wall, so the kids could hit a ball against, the clothes lines were a length of twine stretched between two trees, the toilet was take a bog roll into the forest and the landscaped garden was an overgrown plot on the block next door. We'll leave it there, suffice to say, don't ring us, we'll never ring you.'

**Pacific heron**. 'For God's sake, why did you change your name? The original entry form states that you are a white-necked heron, and you certainly are that, so what's the hap mate? You in trouble with the law, or what? You also strike us as being a bit of a grump. Sorry.'

All the contenders listed below got a yes from the judges and went through to the final round. These finalists were judged in accordance to the level of threats, bribes and vague promises left at the stage door. Choosing a winner was tough, (there was so much talent in the one place it was a struggle sharing the oxygen) but even within the narrow minds of those doing a job they clearly know little about, one bird came out a clear winner.

**Kingfisher**. 'Please move forward a little, you're a little tacker and we can't see you properly. That's better. You are not so much aggressive but constantly frigging cranky- _kek kek kek_ all-the-bloody-time, and that screech! My goodness, you scream at the slightest thing that goes wrong. Imagine being married to you and the toast got burnt? Be mayhem. No wonder your kids have got problems. Okay, you've made it through, but our advice is, you go and have a cheaparse burger and chips to console yourself for what's coming. What's that? You're related to a kookaburra? God save us all.'

**Grey shrike-thrush**. 'Yes, yes, you have fluidity with that _pip pip pooee_ song thing, but I want more. Let me ask you this, have you made your peace with the pied butcher-bird, whom you knocked out of this final by stealing his tune? You know, the one who carries a magic flute around? The one whose glorious and superbly pure song has been appropriated by just about every composer on the planet? The one whose melodies have been recorded and included in a spaceship that has been sent to far away galaxies? No? Well, now might be a good time to start because there's one just over there and he does not seem happy. We hear on the bush telegraph that he has a barrister and a warden on his payroll. Better grab yourself an orange jumpsuit and a bar of soap.'

**Pink cockatoo**. 'Oh Dahling... you are so soft, so pretty pink, and those fluttery eyelashes! We understand a certain doll brand may have used your image, is that right? Miss Pink Cocky, you are so stunning, your picture should be on a ten dollar note or used in an ad for mentally deficient politicians to be better people. You are a _serious_ contender for first place. Can we meet after the show?' (This from Trevor)

The adjudicator rang through and was heard to say, 'Can we run a check on her gender? And test her virginity?'

Trevor quickly fired back, 'Listen you moron, non-specific gender Pinky has just come through a drought, so nothing has happened, is happening or will be happening until the rains come. She/he hasn't seen a wombat since Archer won the Cup. Next you'll be asking to see her pink bits. Back off.'

**Little eagle**. 'You have so much power you invoke fear every time you take to the air. Not to mention arrogance and misogyny. You were probably a shock-jock on talk-back radio. We also see that you have changed the state religion three times in as many years and were wondering why would you do that? You must be very deviant. Did I use the right word there?'

**Tree creeper**. 'How on earth do you hop fifty feet up a dead tree without stopping? Anyone who can do that must be in with a chance. If you don't get a gong, I suspect you would get employment from the owners of the Burj Khalifa. Got their number if you want. My uncle works there.'

**Budgerigar**. 'I see on your census form, yes don't be surprised, we know they were recently hacked, that you listed 'smuggler' as occupation. Could you explain that to us please? We also noticed that you never stop chattering. How does that work in the smuggling game? Ride a pushbike, do you? What's that? You want to be leader - again? Get real. Your deceitful behaviour ('No funding cuts to the ABC or SBS...'), your threat to shirtfront Ruskies, your opposition to Same Sex Mating, the union movement and basic humanity, mean you can never be reconsidered for first place. So bugger off.'

**Peregrine falcon**. 'There has been a note handed to us that reads, "I win or you all get ripped into little pieces." Do you know anything about it? Our guide to Serial Killers of the World, recently seen on Nestflix, indicates that your mob is to be found world-wide. Listen sport, we take issue over your attitude. By the way, is your 457 visa up to scratch? Have you paid the backpacker tax? And what citizenship do you hold? I'll be ringing the Kiwis tomorrow to do a check. Don't knock anything over on your way out.'

**Rainbow bee-eater**. Are you gay? Not that we mind, right. We also see that you have just won first place in a colouring-in competition and you thought that if you win one, you must win the next. Doesn't work like that, sunshine. Frock up and mince down to the mardi-gras.'

**White-breasted wood swallow**. 'We are, or were, in a quandary. That's a place where they mine quarries. Or a place where unsure clothes are washed. Even though you are fat (some may say plump, rounded or big-boned but we don't buy that) and are therefore on the dole, drink cask wine, and smoke fat roll-yer-owns, we saw qualities that were new to all of us. Qualities that made us go beyond our perceptions of what is frowned upon by us elite. Qualities, we acknowledge, that even if you do star in a television series called Backward Bludger Street, will undoubtedly bring you the gold medal. One hundred of you flew in and out in the one mob, after you all tried to sing (it was awful), and after you all, and we mean all, landed on the one perch and snuggled up together, we saw true love. Your little shoulders touched and some of you even huddled under the wing next to you. The care and the genuine warmth, literal and figiteral, really moved us so much we gave away our chairs and bought a bench seat and did what you little guys did. You have shown us truth, love and beauty, and you have won the inaugural Paroo's Got Beauty.'

The judges, after moving apart a bit, all stood up and clapped.

Yes, beauty is prettiness, foibles of character, and it is voice. But it is also simplicity of style, intrigue, serenity, humour, eloquence, elegance, glamour, excitement, grand, intimacy, kindness and passion. They are the true winners.

##### 36

'Is this the last little fire, the last sleeping bag roll, the last tent fold...?'

That is a question I ask myself towards the end of each river trip. It's not a wish, but merely a recognition of a possible end that's getting close.

Things were getting desperate. After pushing the canoe over, around and under logs, I was battered and bruised. My shins resembled lumpy blue golf balls. My balls resembled lumpy blue golf balls. Rain drops as big as basketballs were plopping like the Dambusters on a practice run, and as it got late, I struggled in a lignum swamp. It was almost dark, and things were Grimm. I looked over my shoulder for axemen, wolves and girls wearing red hoodies. I was wet, grey and lonely, and needing some colour. Across to the left were some light pink banks but this tantalising hint of a coloured saviour was cancelled by shallow water, low sloping banks and an elephant graveyard. I wanted high orange banks, deep water and I wanted it now. I wanted dryness and security. I know misery loves company Grandma, but struggle can make sweet, so get a wriggle on if you don't mind.

As I shoved the canoe between metal bars, mud and whale sharks, I tripped and belted every square inch of flesh that had not yet been belted and swore mightily. I tried not to let the panic cloud what little judgement was remaining, I tried to ignore the broken bones, the bright red blood squirting forth in pulsating fountains and the waning enjoyment of being on an inland river. I was in need of help. So I spoke to the only one who could do so.

'Wait Tony, settle,' I said, 'For goodness sake man, slow down or you will hurt yourself. '

'It's alright, I've got this. Things will work out. No matter what happens, it's alright. I've been like this before. Hang on, hurt myself you say? I am already hurt, aren't I?'

Talking to yourself is solitude's way of drawing pain out of the body, like a wad of cabbage draws out infection. But if you don't watch out, solitude's poultice can drain the marrow, it can extract the human qualities from your very existence and turn it into craziness. Mind you, one man's craziness is another's sanity, and I suspect the vice-versa person also does a reasonable job. But talking to yourself is also solitude's way of creating love, and this can replace the space that the drawn-out pain has left. And the love gives back to the soul, counteracting the cabbage leaf's subtle withdrawal of sanity under the guise of helping your pain. Please tell me you get this.

From the left came a fast channel surrounded by lignum, then I was joined by another and another, and a third nother came in and they all speared me out into a lagoon. A two-kilometre-long, 200-metre-wide expanse of blue spoonbills, pink egrets and black Nile River crocodiles. Within three seconds, even though the rain was coming down in large buckets, I had set up the tent and had a fire going. Within an instant (which is considerably shorter than three seconds, particularly when you're dodging nine-litre water containers), a skim-milk high in sugar and additives, I was dry and warm and safe. And like the boys had done, I played hard, dug in deep and came away with the two points.

Right then, I just wanted to be dry and have a hot cup of sweet black tea, and I got both.

And as the lite was fading into a full-cream dark ink, a little eagle flew into its nest tree by coming through the front door. And it was a sign, a sign of welcome and of rescue. I suppose that's two signs.

That night, I didn't eat. It was enough to sit and poke the coals, enough to watch the now revealed stars shine in the water, and enough to know that I could breathe.

When morning came, however, I ate anything that wasn't nailed down. Metal fence posts, dead animals and bark from the trees; even though the first was wired, the second melted and the third attached and alive, none were safe. And I must say it was my good fortune, after I had whet my appetite, to have caught a fat yellowbelly. And as I slowly sipped hot black coffee and gratitude, that fish was slowly grilling. Well most of it. The head, fins and swimming ability were in a pot to make a soup. You don't have to stir the soup, the fish does it for you. A sustainable soup. If you've never had fish soup on an inland river, let me know. It is one of life's joys, akin to your first love, your first drink/smoke/inhale, and the first time you discovered baroque music. All three being unforgettable, unhealthy and unbelievable. In that order.

When the world is thus, it is like you can focus on everything in view, and things that aren't eventually come into line because they know you have conquered not the river, but yourself. The solitude felt strange in a nice way. There was no feeling of isolation, desperation, no loneliness or panic. And although it was a time of no social contact whatsoever, it was just a comfortable appreciation of being alone in the bush.

And I rolled the sleeping bag, the tent and my solitude for the last time on this trip, paddled into Wanaaring, and wandered up to the Outback Inn.

##### 37

What is the speed of darkness? Why isn't 8.00 pm Saturday called Saturnight? If you do not like school, raise your hand. Experience has authority.

A bit random but there you go.

After an hour, several beers and some fascinating dialogue with Narelle the boss, a Cobar miner and his early-childhood teacher girlfriend, a fellow called Shane said, from across the bar, 'I'm going back near Hungerford in a tick. Give you a lift into town if you like.'

Someone said, as I was heading out the door with Shane, 'Aren't you going to buy some roadies?'

'Of course I am,' I said bluffingly. (I thought roadies were blokes with lank hair, big bellies and a visible bum crack.)

And so according to the extrapolation from those hard-paddling voyageurs, Wanaaring to Hungerford became a ten can drive.

I drove back from Hungerford to Wanaaring, following the orange brick road, dodging owlet nightjars, moths as big as owlet nightjars, and assorted members of the marsupial family way bigger than owlet nightjars or moths. As I pulled up next to my canoe under the Wanaaring bridge, the Cobar man and early childhood teacher girlfriend I had met in the Wanaaring bar pulled up beside me.

'Help you load your gear?'

I stayed one night in Wanaaring and the next morning after a hot breakfast and good wishes from Narelle, I left on a wet slippery road to Bourke. It took me three hours.

No voyageur measurement this time, but I'd guess it would probably be an eight can drive.

##### Epilogue

Due to rising costs and stupid questions, the following will apply:

Answers-$1

Answers with thought-$2

Correct answers-$4

Dumb looks-still free

On pub noticeboard.

The Paroo. What a river. It makes the Darling seem domesticated. Please don't repeat I said that.

PART 7

#### 2017

### MENINDEE TO POONCARIE

##### 38

Men-in-dee-shed

This sign is on a largish shed in Menindee. These blokes need to get out more.

Book #2, _Paddling down the Darling_ (about three canoe trips from Menindee to Wentworth in 2010, 2011 and 2012) was published and Steve and Anne Hederics of Wentworth were generous in looking after me with a book launch in their Artback Gallery and Café. It was a lovely evening and was topped off by sitting around an open fire at their home just on the edge of town talking about stuff. All topics were there; stories were told, dreams dreamed, and love given.

Then I drove to Menindee.

Menindee has lots of birds. It has tiny birds, the weebill, big birds, the emu, and a duck whose scientific name, _Tadorna tadornoides_ , comes out as a shelduck-like shelduck. So original. When these guys honk four or five times, they shake their head so rapidly they get whiplash. You see heaps of them, little paddle-pop sticks taped to their neck, filling in insurance claim forms.

I collided with a stationary tree.

I pulled away from the side of the road, glanced at my mother-in-law and headed over the embankment.

Q. Could either driver have done anything to avoid the accident? A. Travelled by bus?

Men have always had sheds. They are a necessity (the sheds anyway), a vital cog in the gearbox of maleness with a high need of clutching. Men demonstrate manhood in many ways, for example, chasing a leather pointy ball and thinking that they are worthy of misbehaving, and then if things go pear-shaped, blaming something inanimate (e.g., beer, the media or their insecurities) for their actions. The shed does not need to blame anyone else; it takes responsibility for what it is, what it has done and what it might do, and therefore could never play rugby league. But the humble shed is manhood done subtle. The shed is not purely an escape, nor is it an avoidance of domesticity or of the little missus. Sheds exist to feed a man's soul. The Egyptians had them (called them pyramids). They had a deity named 'Shed' (truly), who was seen as a saviour, or as a helper. Shed is a derivative of the word 'shade', which sort of makes sense when you sit in a shed. Roald Dahl wrote in a shed, as did Arthur Miller, Dylan Thomas...

But sheds are not exclusive retreats for the ancients nor for famous literary figures and this is what makes them reachable to ordinary blokes, particularly in Australia. Aussie blokes and sheds are like Bogie and Bacall, summer and cricket, a stamp and an envelope, a burger and chips. Sheds have order and disorder, calm and chaos, fresh and stink, inappropriate calendars and hardware shopping lists, and they have things that are saved because you just never know. Little bits of string are in drawers, nails and bits of wire are in glass jars, and tools are in place on one of those large white boards with tiny holes. Things are sharpened, repaired and invented. Sheds allow creativity and give refuge to troubled souls. Men have been seen entering a shed and then never seen again. Sheds are portals to parallel sheds of lives once lived and lives to be lived. Sheds are oxygen, home-brew, and sheds are mateship.

Mensheds Australia, started in 2006, has over five-hundred sheds registered where men can come together for all the usual shed reasons, including mental health.

Just like the one in Menindee.

##### 39

Education is important but beer is importanter.

This pleases me on many levels. Particularly if I'm in a four-story building.

I put the canoe in below weir 32 with fantastic help from Darryl of the Burke and Wills Motel. And from day one, I was there. That reads a bit weird but the _there_ isn't just a there, as in, a canoe on a river, it's a _there_ that has a much bigger meaning. So there.

This there meant that I had already lost track of the date, days, worries about money, or lack of it as was the case, and any other of the western values that can build up in the psyche and cause grief. I sang for my supper and the river heard me. I had that confidence and peace that usually comes when you are three or four days into a bushwalk or in this case, a canoe trip. I was there and best of all, I knew it. I tingled yet I was calm. I was humming inside yet I was relaxed. I was so quiet I had to lean forward to hear myself think. I was seeing without looking because I felt every shaft of sunlight as it hit, I sensed each ripple of the river and could tell where it came from and where it was going. I heard an extremely loud noise and turned to see a dead leaf as it scritched across the sand. I heard a thousand goannas climbing a dead tree and turned to see a crested shrike-tit, tearing bark in its search for insects. I moved so slowly I thought I'd get nowhere.

When you are in such a place you are not anywhere but _there_. And in this place, this almost mysterious other-world of energy shifting, this definite ethereal no-place of irrelevant time, one ceases to be on time, one doesn't need time, and one can transcend anything.

I like this chapter.

##### 40

Bored? Try a missionary position.

A Lutheran church sign.

There are no birds on the Darling in April. Don't even consider going out there because you won't see any. They are all in tree hollows or hidden in foliage binge-watching the television series they missed out on last spring because they were too busy nesting. But now, it was their turn to chill out. There they'd be; eating junk food, bloodshot-eyed, and not washing. Imagine going into one of their hiding places? Food wrappers and filthy dishes strewn everywhere, broken feathers lying around, phone off the hook... Stink bad too, I'd say.

Even as I lamented all the times I had seen thousands of pelicans, hundreds of cormorants and eleven egrets, I knew that the birds would return in September and there would be an influx of stunningly beautiful birds. Pure voices, alert and aware, and with such fresh colours. Not many know this but there is a mobile bird-grooming service that does the western New South Wales circuit. The little four-cylinder cars, bright pretty pink, tow an even prettier pinker trailer. Inside these trailers are wee perches. A young lass, dressed in pink and about 18 years of age, would say, 'Right, you lot, hop in.' and she would set the dials:

_Size_ - 26-28 cm.

_Colour_ - primarily green, some tummy yellow with a dash of red on the rump.

_Voice_ - a tinkling, pleasing whistle

And after a bit, several sparkling male red-rumped parrots would emerge. Part of their scientific name ( _haematonotus_ , from the Greek, means 'blood back'. Thank you, Neville Cayley). The young lass, who really wanted to study law and was only doing this to pay her uni fees, would have to reset the dials for wrens to be a soft wash cycle. She'd also have to have separate days for falcons and pigeons.

Some birds missed out on the mobile wash and had to wait until the next semester break. This is why you see brown falcons for example. They are really white. The young lass couldn't work Sundays not only because her penalty rates were taken away by mean-spirited capitalist pigs, but she had to swat her next spelling test... _literary gent, electrocutory, apple ate_...

But then, one morning it all changed. It was like spring had come early. And probably not for the first time. Accompanied by the coffee pot on a sandy beach I saw heaven descend on the Darling River. Across the river under a huge fallen log were a couple of fairy martins. 'See,' he says to her, 'You remember we raised our family here last year?' And he's feeling all manly and protective, this provider of a home (well, him and the 8,000 others who helped him gather the mud pellets used to build the village). And she is all coy and her feathers are all fluffed up, 'Yes, I remember, and we flew over the water together into our mud nest. And then we...'

I was now teary and wanted to go home.

Some welcome swallows squeaked as they flew over the water. These birds get their mud pellets for their nests from the same hardware shop as the fairy martins but needed small hollows in which to make these nests. They landed on the spout of a hollow which was safely sticking out of the water. They ruffled their feathers and spoke nice words to one another. Even though it wasn't spring, they seemed that they were clucky. Global warming? Wrong page on the calendar? How would you be, once a year?

A bronzewing pigeon called. And shone plump and brown as if he'd just emerged from the trailer (which would be set at Borderline fat, Iridescence greeny-brown, and Boom) and waddled down to drink. Then fluttered away, low, hard, fast and straight. When bronzewings fly, their flapping is like an audience after a concert, and their wings (the bird's not the hall's) go so fast they drag the bird along. A tilted helicopter of movement. Bronzewings always fly with a purpose. I guess it's survival, but I keep thinking, these guys are lawyers. There is no creativity, no variance or no emotion. Just follow some rules and manipulate the rest.

A peregrine (his rostered day off from the mobile cleaning van) was late home from an all nighter. Nonetheless, the warning birds still called loudly. 'Yes, we can see he is a bit seedy,' they whistled, 'just sayin'.'

'Comeon guys, I'm tired. Just on my way... Hey, was that a bronzewing down there?'

A restless flycatcher scrizzled. 'Don't confuse me with that dream stealer, I just grind scissors.'

A whistling kite whistled. 'No, I'm not like those black kites or the little eagles, I stay all year.' Ouch. Oneraptoreupship that was proud, everlasting, and local. Modest, too. Probably played his first game in Queensland. In the engine room.

A black-breasted buzzard cried. These birds are giant dark monarch butterflies. Two were harassing a wedgetail, whom, I might add, turned his claws up here and there and said, 'Okay, I am out of my territory, but stay loose.' It was just a game of showeagleship. Except buzzards aren't eagles, but never mind.

Brown tree creepers have got it all. A beautiful call and excellent camouflage (when they land on the dirt or even on a log, they disappear). They can pick in the bark, scratch in the dirt and best of all, they are not affected by gravity. In their quest for insects (Why would you be an insect; be lucky if you made it to your first birthday), they hop up a tree trunk, upside down. Imagine if Mr Apple Falling man had come to the Darling before he saw that Granny Smith on its way down. He'd never have invented gravity. There is nothing tree creepers can't do. They sing opera, are excellent undercover agents and have totally revolutionised space travel. It wasn't a dog that was sent up into space, it was a tree creeper. They could also be world leaders; you know, use their personal accounts to send sung tree-mail, go bankrupt, sack people...

A lone, male, red-tailed black cockatoo called his ancient call as he looped over the river. A female flew in from the opposite way. They touched wings. He did a wide circle, leaned in and kissed her and away they went to the Cool Casuarina.

I do want to go home now.

Two white-faced herons weaved and looped up the river. One was chasing the other, groaning and straining to catch him. These were siblings and the one being chased had taken his little brother's toy frog when they were in the nest. And now that little brother had grown balls, it was time for payback.

'The frog, you took my toy frog. And I am so going to get you!'

'Stop! You've already belted me twice this morning!'

White-plumed honeyeaters like to bathe in the river. But some of them don't get it because they just do one quick dip then fly out squealing. When you bathe in the Darling in April, one dip does not cut it because you will come out colder than when you went in and stay colder regardless of whatever warmth you have at hand. This includes sunshine, campfires and electric blankets. I have seen honeyeaters sunbaking, snuggling next to me at little campfires and turning the dial on their electric blankets. They've got no idea about electricity prices.

If you want to swim in the Darling when the water temperature is 11 degrees, you must go under at least three times and immerse your body. This either equals the temperatures or freezes you to death. Every Darling fisherman knows this. Seen them splashing about. They scream a lot.

Peaceful doves have a call, _bal-ear-a-bit,_ which can be translated as 'I have with me a leaf of an Olea, a genus of tree which has a small fruit, purple when ripe, that can be squashed to make a reasonably useful oil.' They carry spare leaflets just in case. Anyway, how come Noah chose a dove? I mean, he had a pair of every living species on his canoe, didn't he? He could have chosen someone faster, for example, a peregrine. If so, I suspect the falcon may not have chosen an olive branch. Or a eucalypt branch for that matter. 'Eww, why did you bring me that piece of dove?'

Peregrine, speaking with his mouth full, says, 'Noah, there's heaps more where this came from. Yumm.'

Sometimes doves cry.

Grey shrike-thrushes are indeed grey and seem a bit bland but who cares when you can whistle like they do. It is fluid, melodic and carries through the trees and across the river.

A flock of corellas was on its way to church in Menindee to deliver a sermon. That's what sermons are, a raucous screech delivered like a loaf of bread tossed through a window. I could tell this was where they were going because the corellas always wear white robes with a purple sash. My dad used to deliver bread. Not through a window though. He had a horse and cart. It was called meals on wheels. The loaves and the hooves. This was Dubbo at its highest point of technology. One day he rolled the cart.

'Hey Max, not loafing on the job, were you?' Dad was bred for the job I'd say.

Who said there were no birds on the Darling in April?

##### 41

Dip

A road sign. I waited on the road shoulder with some corn chips.

Back in the old days, I worked at a sawmill, and was shown how to measure across a flitch without a tape measure. 'If you stretch your hand to widen your thumb and little finger, well that's nine inches.'

I have used this technique often. For example, the diameter of home-made biscuits, a kid's head, and a personal item. And now, to ascertain the length of a murray cod (converted to metric of course). Just kidding about one of the items. I mean, why would you want to measure a kid's head anyway?

The first cod on this trip snapped my springer and the line, safely tied to a log, went tight along the bank. Gently you pull, gently you talk to this fish and gently you talk to yourself. 'I am here now, I have a mighty fish and I am a part of the universe.'

In she comes, and right here I'd like to say that if I ever hear of a Darling fisherman or woman who mistreats a murray cod (apart from eating it), then they are not worthy. In she comes (me wearing gloves of course) and my goodness look at that. To see a cod that you have just caught fair and square, is to bring your mind and body together in a junction of unbelievable harmony. Quickly measure according to Roy (minus the leather gloves), then release, using the gently word once again. And as I did, with the length of one metre fifteen centimetres on my mind, she turned and looked at me. I swear to this day, this majestic fish did not say, 'Thank you for releasing me. Thank you for saving my life, O Wonderful One.' No, she eyeballed me and said, 'Best you got, bitch?' And turned her head and kicked away.

It's one of the nine languages.

And I did catch yellowbelly. Some were released, and some were eaten. I have heard, constantly, 'Oh, those yellowbelly, they taste muddy.' Blah blah blah. Sorry, I must be in an intolerable mood. Yellowbelly (and carp - don't start me) may taste of the river, yes, because that's where they live, but there is no such thing as a muddy taste, there is only taste. And another thing I constantly hear, even when I'm on the dunny, watching cricket or asleep, is: 'Oh, but you must cut out the fat on the top of a yellowbelly's back.'

Why would you do that, for goodness sake? It's the best bit. The health benefits are extraordinary. I once did a randomised, double-blind, placebo-controlled trial, also known as an eat-all-you-can but don't tell anyone, and found that yellowbelly fat rivals kale, quinoa and Grandma's staples that are now trendy (e.g. home-baked apple pie and whipped cream) for nutrition, taste and Gross Domestic Happiness. So much so that I'm thinking of starting a new cooking show. Not one that is done under time pressure, not one that humiliates every would-be cook or Asian within a two-hundred metre radius and not one that is encrusted with either fat wallys or sleek dickheads as judges and/or commentators. My show will be called The One Main Ingredient Cooking Show. No umpires or journalists will be harmed during production. Though no-one will be at fault, things could get out of hand. As the TV cameras roll in to return serve with (hopefully) repeats sets of questions regarding balls, tanks and flashy sportscars. No juice will be served, only love.

In this circus, I may use a dash - approximately three litres - of olive oil under, in and on top of the fishy one-ingredient. And at the end when the credits roll up the screen, not so fast that you can't read who the grip was, I will pop a spoonful in my mouth and go, 'mmm mmm.'

Okay, I'm sorry, that's two ingredients. So we could now have The Interesting Two Show.

Make sure your ingredient is uplifting and at least 30cm long. Bag limit is two.

Yellowbelly fat is also a brilliant moisturiser and is way better than several commercial tubes of soft clear stuff, that list what's not in the tube as opposed to what is in the tube. There are a few moisturisers that are honest and instead of listing, 'We use Vaseline so suck it up precious ones.', they list Petroleum jelly, petrolatum, mineral oil, White Soft Paraffin and recycled nuclear waste from Fukushima (sourced naturally from the Pacific Ocean, so use heaps).

I once rubbed some yellowbelly fat into the back of my hands and it seeped through and came out in my palms. A palm oil without orangutans. A palm oil that is called palm oil, not vegetable oil.

##### 42

Half the people you know are below average.

Averages are rubbish and I can tell you why. Not only because my mathematical skills are brilliant but because averages (like graphs, statistics and government budget figures) are misleading. This trip, approximately 280 river kilometres (so measured with a stick which was the distance from the tip of King Henry the First's nose to the end of his outstretched thumb), was done over three weeks. This gives an average of around 13 kilometres a day, but this is confusing because some days I paddled thirty-five kilometres, while some days I went two bends. And occasionally I stayed put for three days. This latter decision could be borne of aching bones or simply that _Hey this spot is so nice, let's stay a bit longer_. Say that you will. This is why averages are dodgy in their actual day-to-dayness.

'Oh, our average rainfall out here is 2-4 inches a year.' Okay. But some years you either get no rain or less than your two inches and then you will get ten inches a year for three years in a row. While this may validate the averages number, on the ground she's a bit different. Try it and see how you go when the sheep, kangaroos and Pteranodons are dying of thirst, or the only way in or out is via a flooded river (can be difficult and somewhat stressful if there's a health or safety issue) and then the banks become slippery because the water level has dropped three metres. I don't mean to be mean but thanks anyway. I'm just an average sort of bloke.

I can read. And I feel honoured and extremely fortunate. Thank you to my early primary school teachers, and my parents who bought me books. To be able to read, to make meaning and to be carried away to a magic place (this does not include registration papers, medical-test results or traffic infringements), goes into the soul. It creates a life-form of its own and maintains it. My choices were limited to Little Golden Books, Biggles or Enid Blyton. And maybe a few Boys' Own adventure stories, How-to manuals or African Animal information books. These days the choices are incredible. Kids illustrated books and YA stuff are brilliant. In class, during quiet reading time after second break, I wander about checking what kids are reading. And I write some titles down then go and read them.

In my possession I had books two and three in the Miss Peregrine series and I was a happy boy. I was amazed that a first book was of such a high standard. The twists, the turns, the adventure, and the brilliance to create an extreme desire to read on. And to feed a soul that is ever-hungry. And I found it hard to wait before reading the next instalments.

Well done Ransom Riggs and thank you Year Six.

##### 43

The most powerful position is on your knees.

A church sign. I was going to add, What would they know, but then thought more about it.

Leaving camp was usually done by about nine. Then I would drift for a while, paddle a bit or just sit and see what happened.

Either way, things were pretty casual. It was like I was again on opiates, a slowness that let me be aware of the surroundings, but not my mind, which had become a pain-free zone surrounded by surroundings. The slow physicality gave a freedom to the seemingly unaware deeper mind and became a lost track of temporal constrictiveness. A choice yes, but when you are in that frame, these choices seem to be made by the other self, the one who does the work, watches over you and lets you have that freedom to watch over yourself and what you're doing.

Robert Louis Stevenson got this. He said, in his _Inland Travels_ (page 78) which details his canoe trip of 1876:

'There was one odd piece of practical metaphysics which accompanied what I may call the depth, if I must not call it the intensity of my abstraction. What philosophers call me and not-me, ego and non ego, preoccupied me whether I would or no. There was less me and more not-me than I was accustomed to expect. I looked upon somebody else, who managed the paddling;...my own body seemed to have no more intimate relation to me than the canoe, or the river, or the river banks. Nor this alone, something inside my mind, a part of my brain. A province of my proper being had thrown off allegiance and set up for itself, or perhaps for the somebody else who did the paddling... I take it, in short, that I was about as near Nirvana as would be convenient in practical life...

Late one day I suggested to myself that it was getting late and that I'd better make camp. After checking the map for bends (because if you have a bend, there's a good chance you will have a sandy beach), and previously marked camping spots, I started to feel anxious because there were none and it was after sunset. Then I heard a voice whispering, ' _It's okay, things will work out._ ' It felt a bit weird and I actually looked around to see if the other self was actually there. And then on a hairpin bend, just before two kilometres of reach where there would be nothing except high interest rates, gender inequality and broken real estate promises, I came across a solid sandbar.

Why do I doubt you, old river.

Or is it me I doubt?

Even though this was the fifth time on this stretch of river and all previous camp sites were marked on the reused map that had been reused, I had not camped on this bend before because the river often changed. The camp site that was just given to me wasn't there three years before. It had been a steep muddy slope unsuited for goats, mountaineers and condors. But because of floods it had reinvented itself to become fresh, pristine, and ready to help others who are less fortunate. Musicians, stockbrokers and sportsmen often do this too; usually after they've been busted.

April on the lower Darling is a hot time, but not so hot that there are mozzies or black flies (if it's flood time, then all there will be are mozzies and flies, let me tell you). I tried different stuff. I swam each day, I camped on the east facing banks and I broke camp in the dark and was in the canoe waiting for enough light to paddle. I had boiled an egg or ordered a pizza the night before and would eat in the canoe as I was paddling. The pizza delivery people must get a hefty travel allowance, and penalty rates. Sometimes I had leftovers from a lentil and curry soup, or a slab of cold fish. Scoop a cup of river water and away you go.

At one of the stay-put camps, I did some painting. Watercolours are my favourite and the thick paper ran toned-colours into reality. I suspect Heyson is safe for a bit, but creating an image, although it may look rubbish, is a feeling that goes in deep and comes out deep. It's a creation that only answers to the creator.

I decided to go for a walk and as I wandered along the bank I felt all flaneury. Parasolled young ladies nodded greetings to me because I was so dashing. I tilted my head forward a little and touched my hat. And after they walked past, I scribbled down their names for future reference.

Miss Felicity Jones, tight blue bodice, filled with happiness.

Miss Saoirse Jones, sister to Felicity. Tighter blue bodice, free as two birds.

Mrs Bethany Jones. Grows figs. Has two beautiful daughters.

I have noticed things don't always go as planned on this river. The young ladies I fantasised about must have either moved on to a tennis fixture, back home with their married sister or went dancing at a honky-tonk bar. As I wafted along in a dream of thwocks, genteel cups of tea and arranging payment options, a huge black boar grunted and walked out to confront me - and he was about forty feet away.

I have been in this position before and the most reliable advice I can give to myself, or anyone for that matter, is to run like hell. However, things have changed. I have not developed into a braver person, one who would charge and kill the pig bare-handed (truth be told, I have done that so many times...), my new knee hinders me from running fast. This pig took two steps toward me, lowered his head and growled a deep growl. I knew what was coming next and as I looked behind, I could see that the nearest climbable box tree was eighty feet back. This clearly called for a well-measured, safe and sensible response. A response that meant one could never underestimate the predictability of stupidity.

I said, 'That's not threatening, slut. _This_ is threatening.' And I took a few steps forward and screamed at the boar.

The pig looked up at me, back to an imaginary audience, then trotted away in disgust.

It's hard being awesome.

I stopped for lunch (two Valiums and a shot of rum) and found to my utmost joy that I was seated (trembling a little for recently having escaped certain death), next to a bulldog ant's nest. This was far more dangerous and a whole lot scarier than being slashed to death by a feral pig. One does not move, think inappropriate thoughts or give cheek to bulldog ants. Telling you. So I froze, which does little to fool these killers. I once saw such a nest and it was surrounded by green grass, which was odd because the rest of Australia was a Mad Max movie. A kangaroo mum and her joey ambled over, and the joey said, rather too loudly I thought because bulldog ants have excellent hearing, 'Look mum! Food!' And he bounded over. Now, the doe and myself, having experienced the sweet pleasure of being shot, cut by swords and blown to pieces by hand grenades, nodded politely to each other and waited. Pretty soon there was a piercing scream like you've never heard and the joey hurtled past on a 250 Yamaha, his back-wheel spinning and swerving in uncontrolled speed, and the joey howling that someone had lit fires all up his legs. Me and mum acknowledged each other again then went our ways. Because I was so still, three centipedes and a funnel-web had crawled up my leg, but they meant nothing because I had been sitting quietly next to a bulldog ant's nest, so I flicked them off.

Then I limped away like hell.

##### 44

Buy one beer for the price of two and receive a second beer absolutely free.

I am so going to that pub.

Along with the sunshine, there's got to be a little rain sometimes and when it's on its way along the Darling, there are indicators that say as much. Without access to the usual array of sort-of almost reliable weather reports (I'm thinking radio, television, internet or the retired bushie who lives in the next street), it is handy to be able to see such indicators and understand their message. For example, when you see kangaroos with umbrellas tucked under their arms you just know something is about to go down. Or you see streaky clouds between soft white puffy bits making the heat UV intense. Or you see ants building wee boats.

It wasn't God that warned Noah about the impending flood. He (the alive one) was out walking one morning and saw the ants at work bending planks and forging bolts and he realised they knew that high water was on its way. By the way, those forward-thinking ants did build their own boat, and when Noah stood at the top of the gangplank and was checking the List that said, 'Ant species', he crossed out the ones he had seen barging ahead (also drinking schooners in dinghy bars), constructing a lugger. And these ants, these ants with incredible and unacknowledged future problem-solving skills, these ants with a lifelong learning passion, these ants with curiosity, because they had been rejected and done out of royalties by their saviour, became cranky and turned into bulldog ants.

I settled on a raised sandy beach, added a tarp in front of the tent and gathered firewood. To be dry during rain is a nice feeling. It brings you back to a safe simplicity, the sort you had when you were a kid and someone else was providing the shelter, food and love. I snuggled and was warm, I listened to the rain spattering, and I slept. It was nice to know someone was looking after me.

I've read that you can never catch up on lost sleep. The evidence collected, after serious bribing from cereal producers, sleeping pill distributers and government interference, states that it is impossible. They all say, 'You lose you don't snooze.' But this is not true. Of course you can catch up. That's why we have rain. This belief does have its issues in sandy deserts and rainforests. And of course, to assist in this biological phenomenon, God invented corrugated iron so that we could sleep in the daytime. There is a rule in wedding vows that states, _It rains you cuddle_. When couples are still in that phase that is often referred as the Let's have sex three times a day phase, they constantly check the weather forecasts for wet seasons, cyclones and summer storms. As things move on, you know, kids, bills and being taken for granted, couples scan the Bureau of Meteorology for El Nino, the boy-child.

On the river my roof was taut canvas and I was thinking that if God's 2IC was in tune with his constituents (unlike Australian politicians who are unaware that they exist - constituents, and themselves), he would have said at the monthly stand-up-on-clouds meeting, 'Can we extend the rain sleep thing from corrugated iron to tents?'

To which God might have said, 'Sure. Is there anything else you'd like to add while the shop's open? Umbrellas? Akubras? Canoeists?'

Patter patter splat splat. Maybe a rumble and a few torches flashing their sheets around. If the tent has been guyed or, in my case, over-guyed, then you're home. A peaceful, secure, simple-life done in miniature. The physical space and its la vie-en-miniature reassure the mind. A tiny space also assures intimacy, whether you desire it or not.

I would soak some black-eyed beans in a stainless-steel bowl, then after a bit cook these slowly, drain, add fried fish, dukkha, salt, wild greens, tomato paste and garlic. I have Italian and Arabic ancestors, which are both mixed with some blackfella. I wish. But alas, I'm merely an English thief with lots of tatts who did his time.

I may have to invent a new cooking show - a Seven Ingredient Cooking show - the ingredients remain the same, just like the seven seas, the seven colours of the rainbow, the seven continents, seven days of the week, seven classes of crystals, seven wonders of the ancient world, seven deadly sins, the seven voyages of Sinbad, the seventh seal, the seven muses, the seven medieval arts, snow white and the seven dwarfs, the seven petals on Buddha's lotus flower, the seven days to create the world, the Magnificent Seven and seven years in jail if you are an English thief.

Cuddles during rain on the newly-approved tent would be nice. Without this pleasure option, mainly because I was alone, I went for second best, which is a book.

_Jasper Jones_ , Craig Silvey's second novel, is a cracker. It has faith, tentative love, bullies, racism and way too many fearful adults (like growing up in West Dubbo). It is an Australian classic and will one day surpass Huckleberry, Holden and Harper. Children must grow up, I realise this, but I say only if they can keep (not their innocence, which will be bludgeoned by the media, the education system and someone else's expectations) their raw approach and excitement towards nature, kindness and themselves. And keep their trust clean, though it too might get a few knocks. Beauty and purity of this kind, when seen from the angle of a grown-up who hasn't retained any specialness, will often overheat them until the grown-up melts to the ground in a puddle of joy.

Jasper retained his strength until it became liberating. For the reader too.

The next morning the mist raised itself like a fleece about to land onto the skirting table. The sunlight, which was weak from listening to too much rain on the roof, made a feeble effort to pierce the wool (which did have burr, daggs and quite a few yolks) but was quickly swamped because the rainy-day gods weren't quite ready to submit. When one has power, one hangs on. The wool became thicker and heavy rain fell. The large drops plopped into the water and I wondered what it must feel like if you were a fish. Do fish hear the rain falling? Do they see the drops from underneath? Fish don't have eyelids, so it must be a bugger trying to get a dark room to sleep in. Maybe they wear sunnies on bright days and take them off when it rains. Maybe they have a sunglasses' cloakroom?

'What do you mean, you can't find my sunnies? It's them bloody carp again isn't it?'

'No, I told you, write your name on the long bit.'

Lots of fishermen I know, say, 'No, fish don't bite during rain.' Maybe they say this because they don't go fishing when it's raining. Of course fish bite when it's raining. They love getting wet.

The water ran down the red gum trunks making foam rivulets. The massive branches shone green and dull white and when the sun did shine on the shinyness, it made it appear wetter than it was. A wetter shade of pale one could say.

The rain eased, and the sky was a mixture of blue streaks, almost turquoise in intensity, white cloud with golden edges, and isolated black lumps of coal scurrying to the horizon where they would be safe.

If you get a howling wind on your tail, then life in a canoe is particularly easy. One day a gale blew in from the west, which at this time was behind me. The canoe had a bone in its teeth and I was flying so fast I had to tie a log onto a long rope and toss it out the back otherwise I'd have been in Adelaide by sunset.

However, the Darling rarely winds the same way for long and soon I had to face that wind. The waves were thirty inches high and had a trough of half that. It was all I could do to keep the canoe faced at five-to to five-past. Once when I erred I was blown into the bank and near tipped over. When that happens, even though you're not going forward, you are thankful you are still in the canoe. In this powerful wind time, I saw two hundred panicking wood ducks with their dresses blown over their heads. I had to avert my gaze for a bit. But an amazing thing happened when these half-undressed wood ducks, with white frilly knickers (I peeked), turned back against the howling wind; they swerved so fast they made sparks.

I said, 'Hey, can you do that again?'

'Yes,' they said, 'feather permitting.'

##### 45

You're all most welcome

Church sign. I was thinking of going too.

I knew there were fishermen ahead because I could smell their campfire from four bends away. As I paddled towards their camp - if you could call eleven tents, two gennys and three tinnies with huge outboards a camp and not a sizeable country town - I saw ten blokes all sitting on chairs drinking beer. Now this is a common thing along the Darling. Fishermen drinking beer I mean, and there are also many fishermen's camps, some permanent, some temporary, and a few under water. Yet this mob seemed different. As a passer-by, you can't just rock up and expect camaraderie, it doesn't work like that. There is a respect involved, and I quite like this. It speaks of an acknowledgment and an acceptance. You see, you wait, and you secretly hope they offer you a cold beer.

These blokes, all on the other side of eighty, sat and watched me. I waved. None waved back. This was a little unnerving. Surely everyone waves a little bit? I once saw a kid in a shopping cart and the checkout chick was waving a goo-goo goodbye. The kid looked up, with his face, hands, mother, and five members of the public covered in chocolate, and raised his index finger at her. I said, 'Don't worry, he probably drives a ute.' I hoyed out, 'You blokes want a hand there?' Nothing. I was on a hat trick. 'You leaving me any fish?' Straight into the record books. 'Pritchard has got three nothings for nothing. Probably didn't cost him much either.' They still sat and watched me. I think they were ghosts. I paddled hard. Maybe they don't eat carp either? Anyway, even though I had bluffed my way out back in Louth, this time there were too many of them to fight.

Never got to find out why that extra tent was there.

A silver morning, white cloud, white mist, white light. Wet, glistening grey leaves, saturated soil and clear enough to encourage fantasies. I made a fishing pole while I reminisced. It was long, bendy-stiff and ready for action. Some of us fishermen are never more than three drinks away from lies, divorce or jail. Memories don't fade, they become brighter and isn't this wonderful. Why not relive, regroup and regrow? Okay, the retelling may add stuff bordering on outright lies, but what the hell. Occasionally, this is not intentional because the mind chooses what it wants. Divorce, no matter how amicable, can still hurt. Jail? My time was short, not saying I didn't deserve it, but sweet.

I like fishing.

##### 46

The son shines

Another church sign.

There has been talk, misaligned, maligned or aligned, one can never be sure, that blames low water levels on the Darling on the incompetence of the various governments' handling of water resources (over allocation of irrigation licences, inopportune releases from storages, not building more weirs, too many environmental flows and so on), cotton irrigators, and droughts that are a result of global warming, climate change and people who wear sandals and smoke cigarettes that smell funny. None of those reasons hold water. They are malicious, vindictive and not true, and I have clear evidence that proves this - solid, scientific evidence that is not based on long-range weather forecasts, turkey's nests along the Darling, Barwon, or Macintyre Rivers, or evaporation; that does not rely on Australia's pattern of boom and bust seasons, State governments telling blatant lies or not prosecuting owners of tampered-with meters; evidence that is borne from data gathered by countless observations and high-level mathematical reasoning. The Darling is often low because the wildlife drinks too much. Simple as that.

Kangaroos amble down to the water's edge on three legs, sniffing at things on the way. I guess this is a safety issue. You wouldn't want to be in the same place as a dingo, or an armoured personal carrier. Heaps of them along the Darling. Noisy buggers. They clank and howl a lot on rainy nights. Kangaroos, particularly the ones in these drier regions, apparently don't drink much. It has been recorded that they can go for months without water if the vegetation provides moisture. The ones I saw drinking did not know this; they had wagged school that day and went to a music workshop that used long lengths of hollow wood. Their cheeks undulate as they drink and their ears constantly swivel. They would get straight As in the didgeridoo workshop. I timed four reds at between eight and fourteen minutes of sucking water before a pause or a look around. Then they started again, and this drinking lasted for about twenty-minutes. Maybe they were stocking up like camels do? If you extrapolate a wee bit to the current western New South Wales kangaroo population, well there's a low river every day of the week except Saturday.

While we're on the subject of kangaroos, every time I see a dead one beside the road, I pull over and search their wallet. I'm not interested in their cash, credit cards or hopbuys card, all I'm after is the organ donor card. So far, I have had a knee replacement, courtesy of a blue flyer, and I can tell you I have tremendous jumping ability - on my left side anyway. I'm sort of like the wild haggis in Scotland with their legs on one side longer than the other which enables them to walk about in an upright position. Next I'll have the right knee done, then a few ankle ligaments. Imagine the sidestep I'll have? Be able to run at 30 degrees, step off either foot, and if things got tight near the line, go straight over the top. If I damage my shoulders any more, I'm going for wing replacements. Try and catch me then.

'Quickly, pass it to him.'

Or a bomb in the corner would be four points every time. Maybe I'd take up basketball?

Apostle birds are so-called so because they are known to rove about in a group of twelve, as in the twelve apostles of Jesus. These birds have a similar social structure to white-winged choughs, though perhaps a little less vehement in their power struggles. They do lots of stuff together, like nesting, watching telly and they even hold hands when they cross the road. Dominance is more exposed throat than the chough's murder disguised as state security, genocide or gang warfare. I hate the right-wing conservatives. Eight apostle birds flew down to drink. Sensible option, this flying down a river bank thing, especially when you have wings. This meant that four had stayed back to help with the dishes. After the eight left, nine flew down a little while later; the extra one having been sacked for sticking his mitt in the olive jar. They left and then ten flew down - spilt the olive oil. Then eleven, and then twelve. And I thought, now that we have all the disciples, possibly supper was over. Then thirteen. As Easter Friday was coming up, I now have two questions; was number thirteen Jesus or was it Mary M.? And number two, because the group came down to drink so often, was something too salty on the menu? For example, tears?

White-winged choughs, the thinking man's apostle bird, are more than mere social birds that carry on like teenagers. Yes, they squabble, share and love freely, usually at the same time (that long-running television series, _Peyton Place_ , was based on a mob of choughs), but they can also exhibit behaviours reminiscent of Stalin, Franco and Mao. Sixteen choughs flew to the top of the river bank, which was approximately fourteen metres above the river. After a couple of muggings (they always pick on the academics, teachers and writers) they looked down at the water and thought, 'Hmm, it's a long way to the shop to get a sausage roll and we could fly to that log and she'd be apples. But no, let's walk instead.' They belong in a lunatic asylum. All of them. Choughs too. And as they eventually fought for pole position on the log in the water, a goanna emerged from inside this log, opened his stinking mouth and hissed. Sixteen choughs released their bowels at the same time. They flew up and over the bank and have only been seen twice since. The latest sighting puts them in the South Pacific. I suppose this would help the Darling's water level, not to mention an assured abundance of breadfruit production and tourism on Pitcairn Island.

Emus can stand and lower their necks and drink, but their preferred MO is to do the bent elbow thing, scoop, then lift their head and let the water run downhill. This is not graceful at all. They are so slow the earth actually rotates a few times between their sips. In the bended position they are vulnerable to attack. From experience, if you attack an emu when it's drinking and don't finish the job, you will bleed quite a lot.

Galahs usually like a branch to drink from and it is a prerequisite that this branch be unable to hold the number of galahs that land upon it. It is selected by engineers who design bungy jumps, aerospace vehicle systems and offshore oil platforms. The branch must bend to near breaking point and after one has a drink and flies away, the branch must bounce up throwing at least six into orbit. The remaining birds will screech and imitate a pseudo-terror that is the galah's lot. They do this on purpose. A gala event, one could say. Sort of like when you tickle a baby in a pram. They screech in total mirth that is earthy and joyful (to the parent anyway) then after a bit you only have to raise your hand and the kid cackles and giggles.

When one hundred red-rumped parrots drink from the river, they don't use an unstable branch like galahs do, they wade in from a sandy beach. Perhaps their feet weren't washed correctly in the mobile wash. Or maybe they weren't allowed the olive oil foot wash at the last supper. Then they dip and sip. One hundred small to medium parrots is a lot for one drinking place but they seem to manage okay. A bit of squabble, a bit of tail-biting and more than a bit of looking over the shoulder.

And still, the river level drops.

When foxes drink, they lap like cats. No low river levels with that approach. I tried it. Bugger of a way to have a drink. Foxes also run like cats. Perhaps there's been some crossbreeding between Vulpes and Felis? I have snuck up on sleeping foxes, and their ears will swivel like a spinning wheel in the wind even though they remain asleep. Must be missing a neural pathway or two. Sort of like a kangaroo short in the top paddock. Two bob short of a quid. Half a bubble off plumb. They are pretty creatures with their burnt orange soft and stunning fur (particularly when it's lying still immediately after you've put the rifle away), but underneath the gloss is filth, a decimator who removes a tenth of the Darling's wildlife, including birds, native mammals and lambs.

I have an Australian Broadcasting Corporation article by Anthony Pancia that gives us an idea about the destruction foxes can cause:

'... foxes impacted on up to 84 threatened species... a single fox can take up to 12 lambs in one night... shooting is about the best and most precise way we've got to control foxes... the two-day event netted a staggering 701 foxes, 77 feral cats, 186 rabbits and five pigs...'

I couldn't do the kangaroo suck and the emu method drove me nuts. As for the others, I decided I'm okay with a cup over the side. And I don't drink much so don't blame me, blame all the others.

##### 47

The fact that there is a highway to hell and only a stairway to heaven says a lot about anticipated traffic numbers.

Another church sign. And I must say, a damned clever one. I know what music they play.

When I pulled into Pooncarie, there were two blokes measuring the water flow. They had a laptop and were using signals to direct a wee floating vessel, which they had previously been used in a kiddie's bath-tub. They also used flags they had borrowed from an aircraft carrier, Morse code, and yelled a lot; the rubber duckie responded well. They told me they worked for Water New South Wales. I asked did they use watering cans. When they saw me struggling to carry stuff up the bank to Col Robinson's house, they offered to help me carry the canoe. 'Yes please.' I suggested that because Australia is a big place, a half-inch poly-pipe might be better suited. 'If you're at the hotel tonight, it's my shout.'

Col and Yvonne Robinson are locals known for their big hearts. I have stayed with them so many times before they have made me a permanent bed on the lounge-room floor. Just kidding; it's in the spare room. We went to the pub on the Friday, which was raffle night. This is a big deal in Pooncarie, and rightly so because this is where the world comes together with other worlds, the ones not yet discovered. Until now that is. They don't collide, they meld into a beautiful acceptance: you're okay no matter who you are, what you've done or where you're from. Except for politicians. They were tossed into the street and left to fend for themselves against angry voters, angrier lobbyists who didn't get what was promised, and the shadows of who they once were.

I met shearers, rich graziers, pilots, grey nomads, and one serious gambler. Three tickets for five dollars gets you a chance to win a meat tray, and a chance in the Joker draw. One young lady in front of me bought thirty tickets and laid them out on the pool table. I said, 'You're kidding.'

'Oh no I'm not. I'm a professional gambler and I know stuff.'

Immediately I felt intimidated. What did she know that I didn't? Probably quite a lot. I asked her, 'What do I need to know?'

She said, 'Always look left, right, then left again before you cross?'

I shouted Col, Yvonne and I, three tickets (the gambler coughed derisively, but I said, 'Hey lady, who has missed out the final right look, you only need one ticket to win.') and one each for Water Australia, who were leaving the next day to buy some irrigation supplies. I said to Col and Yvonne, 'Any meat trays are yours, but we share the Joker. That okay?' They were happy with this and we divvied the tickets. Each ticket was ongoing. This means that when the first ticket is drawn for a meat tray, all the other tickets are still valid for the next draw, and so on. I had never seen this before and I liked the fairness of it.

The gambler soon collected five meat trays. She looked over at me and nodded slowly. I thought bad thoughts that featured road trains, speeding sport's cars and crazy bike riders that I had clearly seen, but she hadn't.

And at the end of half an hour of meat-tray draws, of which we had won zero, all tickets, including the previous winners, were put back in for the Joker draw. This is when the room went quiet. The blaring television, showing some ridiculous pantomime called Australian Rules, was turned off, the juke-box lead was pulled from the wall, and little children, pets and anyone over eighty were removed from the room. The lights were dimmed and everyone became beautiful.

There was a locked glass case with twelve playing cards, faced in, and one of these babies was the Joker. If your ticket was chosen, you have one chance to say which was the Joker and if you chose correctly, the winning amount could be substantial. Tonight's purse was $2,200. No pressure.

To my heavily competitive and darkly revengeful delight, Yvonne's ticket was chosen. I looked around for the Mississippi Gambler, but she had vanished. That's right, you nick off when the pressure's on. Couldn't handle losing, I'd say. I did a victory wriggle in case she could see me. (I searched for her for three days too.) The publican said to Yvonne, 'Wait. I will offer you $5 not to choose.'

This was serious stuff here. This was Bond in Casino Royale, this was the illegal bookie, this was marbles in the schoolyard.

Yvonne shook her head. The crowd went wild. 'Wait,' the publican said, 'I will give you $10 not to choose.'

I mean, really? Bump it up son if you're serious. This bloke belonged in a TV game show, like _Who wants to be a Jokernaire_. Yvonne said, 'No, I want to have a go,' and raised her open hands up and down to stir the crowd. We all slow-clapped and called _Y-vonne, Y-vonne_ , in a crescendo of support.

Me, I had already spent my share on a book called _How to be a full-time Gambler_ by Patrica of Pooncarie.

The next day, as Col drove me to Menindee so I could pick up the ute, I said, 'That was a great night.'

Col said, 'We nearly got there too. Hey, you see that sheila win all those meat trays?'

'Nuh, must have missed that.'

There were several places where mud and water were still present and as we went through the first one, we spun, slid and fish-tailed. By Jove, that was lucky, Col said. At the next four boggy spots we drove up off the road through the trees and back on to a dry section of the road. Of course, I had to drive back from Menindee to Pooncarie through all this and dodge the wildlife when doing so.

And then, just like that, this Darling River trip was over.

##### Epilogue

Home is the canoeist, home from the Darling.

There have been some well-known canoeists knocking about. For example, Robert Louis Stevenson, he of _Treasure Island_ , wrote travel stories and one that always intrigued me was _An Inland Voyage_. Our Bob was a canoeist. In 1876, when most of you were still in nappies, he and Sir Walter Grindlay Simpson paddled in Belgium and France. I must say, Stevenson's writing is a bit dour (albeit with the odd deep reflection), but it is an excellent piece from an old-fashioned travel writer.

Karol Wojtyla spoke eight languages (at least), had two doctorates, wrote books and travelled widely. He paddled a canoe in Poland and there's a canoe trail named after him. How cool is that? He was better known as Pope Paul 11. I like Catholics.

Griff Rhys Jones, the Welsh comedian and writer, has a red canoe not dissimilar to mine. He takes chocolate on his trips, as I do; we're both the same age; he paddles on rivers and writes about the historical and social elements of these rivers and does so using dry humour. I'd say there's a big chance he was born and raised in West Dubbo then shipped off to Wales. My heritage is Welsh also. Maybe we were switched at birth?

Pierre Trudeau's 1944 essay, _Exhaustion and Fulfillment: The Ascetic in a Canoe_ , is subtle, appears simple, but is so deep it awakens the longing to put the canoe in. One time, long after I had finished a trip, and the canoe was resting, the gear cleaned and put away, and normality (one version) had returned, I read Trudeau's essay. I immediately left town. With the canoe. Pierre Trudeau understood stuff about canoe expeditions and what they meant to the psyche. The oneness with nature is something you carry forever.

Bill Mason, Canadian canoeist, artist and film maker. His movies with him in a canoe are incredible. This bloke was humble, and he could make that canoe talk.

The correct line from _Requiem_ by Robert Louis Stevenson is _Home is the sailor, home from sea._

And I was home from the river.

PART 8

#### 2017

### BOURKE TO LOUTH

##### 48

Need a lifeguard? Ours walks on water.

Church sign.

After the Menindee to Pooncarie trip in April, I planned on staying home in the spring; writing, teaching, gardening, and spending quality time with my lovely family.

But Hully the Bourke poet contacted me didn't he. He said, 'Want to come to the Bourke Festival with your second book?'

I thought about his question for a long while, perhaps a little over two seconds, 'Yes thank you, I would.'

It was now September 2017, and I thought I'd bring the canoe. Just in case there was a river out there.

The Festival of a Thousand Stories this year was celebrating the 95th anniversary of the death of our poet, Henry Lawson, plus there were the usual music, stories and poetry. There were markets, workshops and displays. I did a meet the author talk, sold some books and read a short story I wrote about a fishing competition. I like writing.

The Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), our national radio station, was there in full force interviewing locals, guests and the Governor-General. And to finish the festival, there was a free concert by John Schuman, formerly of the band Redgum, and writer of the song _I was only 19_. If you've got nothing to do these holidays, go on YouTube and have a listen. The Vietnam war for Aussies is right there. The concert was put on by the mob who run RUOK, which does its bit for suicide prevention by promoting good friendship and listening.

I stayed at the Gidgee Guesthouse, run by Kristie and Chris, and it is the best guesthouse on the planet. It is slap bang in the centre of town and the main building dates back to the 1880s. There is a courtyard, an industrial-size kitchen, free wifi, and my bed had an electric blanket, which, as everyone knows, is the best use of domestic 240v power. We don't need lights, stoves or coffee machines, just electric blankets. Maybe they could invent a reverse electric blanket, as in, like a fridge which uses heat to make cold. Be great in those above forty-degree nights.

Chris drove me to just below the 19-mile weir, which is 30 kilometres out of town, and there I started the next Darling trip.

##### 49

Canoeing was easy work.

From _An Inland Voyage_ by Robert Louis Stevenson. Thanks Robert, you make me feel so good.

Some people don't understand canoeists. They think that every time a canoe is put in there's a battle out there against the elements, a battle that is represented and even disguised as _You against the river_ , like Colonisation, Imperialism and that male Victorian explorer's ideal, based on an outdated Christian attitude to indigenous peoples as well as the land (not so sure it's outdated, but anyway). The ideal that says, _Let's pillage and bring our will to bear in cruel control largely based on a penile, compensatory, bitter, weak disposition._ An ideal of power, exclusion and insecurity. A hunger to conquer. A hunger to make everyone else submit to the brutality of the male false need to belittle others.

A true canoeist's hunger has nothing to do with this conquering thing. It's more of an inclusion of everyone he or she meets (although a few submissions along the way could make the trip more interesting). Canoeists don't even have a hunger for lots of food either. Actually, it is quite the opposite, for canoeists eat very little. And when they do eat, it is done slowly and carefully. A cherishment of saviour and energy; a gluttonous-free approach to life, as it were. Canoeists are cursed with a hunger that seeks simplicity in gear, a mental toughness, and an insatiable desire to be alone on a river. And when our canoeist obtains these three things they form the basis of a pact between him or herself and the river. It's like a sort of agreed ceasefire: there are no winners here, and more than likely, never will be. Sort of like the Middle East, the Koreas or the bloke down the road with the noisy dog. And although the pact appears to be fairly negotiated, it is far from it. The canoeist is really debating within him or herself, because the river is just a river. It does not care for canoeists or anyone else.

For a canoeist, it's you versus you, a relationship between a hairshirt and a far too often complicated chicanery that rarely goes beyond first base because canoeists rarely trick anyone, certainly not themselves. They probably can't play baseball either. They are not a stable breed, and their casual remarks often go beyond addiction and into an unhealthy instability branded as a simple camping trip. Towards their social group, or society in general, canoeists are nice people, well some of them anyway, but to themselves they are not trustworthy, honest and certainly not nice. This is a scientific fact (probably) based on research done by stranded (see that?) partners, assorted mothers-in-law and people who have never seen a canoe but think they would be excellent canoeists for sure if only they had the same chances in life.

And one morning I met two river people who have grabbed life and were a mixture of slowness, excitement and acceptance.

##### 50

You'll never get to work on time. HAHA!

That was on one of those huge digital signs you see at roadworks.

On the river one meets fishermen and women (fisherwomen too), grey nomads, gay nomads, and old blokes in kayaks. My first morning was a ripper. Breakfast was usually a bowl of hot steam (which is the gourmet version of a piss and a look around), but on this day I went all out and added a pot of black coffee. I know, the extravagance was excessive. I won't do it again. Sorry.

It was a slow morning, I stared at the river, it stared at me and time stayed out of the way. This shows great respect and I must thank time for slowing down, but it can get awkward if you ring someone and you think it's only 7 a.m. when it's really 7 p.m. The morning just was and nothing else matters if you live your life your own way because every day gives something new.

A voice called, 'Hoy there,' and a man in a small yellow kayak came to the bank.

I asked him, I said, 'Are you a French-Canadian?'

'No, but I have paddled across Canada, been accosted by a bear and chased by wolves. That do?'

He was Arthur Lockett, age 73, paddling from Brewarrina to Wentworth. He said he moved slowly but because he wasn't fishing or lighting little fires, he could paddle until it was fairly late. We talked for a bit then away he went.

Later that day, I caught up with him. He was stuck on a sandbar. I offered help, but he said he was doing okay, so I paddled on for a while and when I saw a beautiful sand bank, I pulled in and set up camp.

After a bit, Arthur came around the corner. I said, 'Arthur, I realise you do longer days than me, and although it is only a little after 9 a.m., I'd love your company. You want to make camp and talk about stuff or what? I could catch us a fish?'

I cooked us two fish, some fried dampers and then I said, 'Hey Arthur, want a glass of Port?'

Occasionally, (okay, every trip) I bring a flagon along for a nip when the world is good. Arthur and I knocked off two litres of Port. And the world was good alright. We shared travel stories, solved several pertinent world issues and laughed loudly. My goodness he was good company. I noticed his left-hand shaking. I said, 'Arthur what's going on there?'

He said, 'I've got Parkinson's. But I won't let it beat me.'

I said, 'Arthur, if you put the paddle in your left hand, you'll be in Wentworth tomorrow afternoon.'

'I would, except that my left shoulder is buggered.'

He had an industrial accident way back and then the morning before I met him, he had fallen while carrying his stuff over the rocks at the 19-mile weir and landed on the bung shoulder.

'I will get there, you know.'

I had no doubt. None whatsoever. This bloke was tough.

I was glad I had started this trip below the 19-mile weir because of the bad experience in 2015 getting around it, and I decided that I would never fall while lugging gear around a weir.

One must be careful not only for what one wants, but for what one doesn't want.

On the river one meets fishermen and women, grey nomads, gay nomads, and young blokes on paddleboards.

Within seconds of Arthur heading off, a voice called, 'Hoy there,' and a man standing on a paddleboard came in to the bank. Need a roundabout out here shortly. Police rostered on, radar, lollipop people (after they have finished their shift with school children, and future dead sheep management).

This was Mark Kalch, paddling down the Darling, then the Murray and to the ocean. He was doing seven rivers in seven continents. He had already done the Volga, the Missouri/Mississippi and the entire Amazon. I made us some fresh coffee and we talked for a while, then he was gone.

I seriously expected a birch-bark canoe full of voyageurs to come around the corner.

Traffic lights, give-way signs, silent cops...

Arthur had told me of his adventures in the Golden Triangle in the early sixties, his island hopping above Australia, his Canadian trips, and I felt all restless. Not that I was home watching a soap opera at the minute, but if you have the wanderlust craving, well, when someone hands out the ingredients, you are totally screwed.

And then after Mark told me about his previous river trips, his time in Africa and his trek across Iran, not to mention his plans, I felt even more restless. It was a cup of escapism, a teaspoon of adventure and perhaps a pinch of being lost within another culture that stirred me.

Maybe I'll go to the south of Burma.

##### 51

Exchange. Buy, Sell, Trade... 7 Days.

I have Friday on my mind and it's Wednesday. I'm ready to swap.

This September was the Year of the Turtle. I had always seen turtles on my river trips, but on this trip, it was watch where you're paddling time. They would poke a triangle of nostrils and eyes up through the surface and would drift along, watching. The triangle looks like a stick jutting out but if you get too close, say about three metres away, the triangle submerges. Nothing worse than being stalked by a turtle.

Because turtles are reptiles, they need to sunbake. They use 50+ sunblock and wear brightly coloured boardies and skin-tight rashies. It's not a particularly good look, but from one who has noughts and crosses, white lines and question marks on all available skin surfaces, it would appear that turtles have got their shells screwed on correctly. I'll be asking for some advice. I mean, you never see a turtle with skin cancer.

I played a game with them; it was called Spot the Turtle. The rules stated that if they plopped into the water before I saw them, the turtles got one point. And if I saw a basking turtle before it saw me, I got two points. Before you accuse me of skewing the rules, I'll just say these little suckers can see you over two-hundred kilometres away. A few were on the steep bank just above water line, but most were on logs. You might think, _Well hello, there's a log up ahead start looking_. But no, it don't work like that. For starters, as you paddle, you do have to watch out for branches, rocks and submarines. In a canoe, you can't just be ogling reptiles from three kilometres away and nothing else or you will come unstuck.

Each day the points were tallied and each day I lost. One morning I slotted nine of them on a log, _before they dived_. I mean, I was untouchable. Huh, you smug little bastards, I own you. But as the day wore on, they hauled my lead down. Hell, they were good. I had peaked early.

Be nice if they got together, you know, had a meeting, and decided to let me win for once.

'We are gathered here today to see if we could all lower our standards, if we could all chip in to recharge, reverse and reinvigorate the mental instability of a poor disillusioned paddler, one who was seen in 1974 in loop stitch socks and sandals, one who, rumour has it, has owned at different times, a Datsun 120Y, an FC ute and a fix-wheel pushbike. Yes, dear friends, this bloke who wouldn't know his arse from his elbow needs our help. The question is, although we can never let him win the game of Spot the Turtle, ever, what about a race, because he clearly moves at our pace and it wouldn't look like a stitch-up. A big call I realise, so how will we do this? What's that Terry? Hmm, what a brilliant idea. Wow, look at all those claws in the air! Terry, your idea has been uturtlimously accepted. At the end of his journey on the Darling, we will let him win a race.'

##### 52

Sign not in use

This little gem is on par with _This page has been left blank on purpose_. We are doomed.

This is another sensible chapter on birds. Fair warning has hereby been given.

A tribe of fairy martins (the proper collective noun is an adobe) swerved between each other, the air and their last season's memories looking for insects. Why would you be an insect? Every martin and his dog trying to eat you. One bird caught a massive moth about the size of a small football, and between the moth's flapping and size, the birds flapping and size, it broke free. The bird regrabbed it and headed for the hills with 8,000 other martins in tow. Chooks do this too. When one hen finds a grasshopper, instead of standing still and eating quietly, she will take off across the yard with all the other hens racing after her trying to grab the hapless insect. The martin moth had been flying across the river in daylight, which was such a dumb thing to do. This is akin to a Year 3 kid playing tackle red-rover with the big kids.

Some birds, like falcons and cormorants, make a roaring noise when they swerve fast, and this incredible speed can cut the air. You come across slivers of blue lying around on the ground, like scraps of foil. The wind blows them along and you can see them caught on fences and branches. Little kids collect them and make collages. Of the sky. When these birds dive they mostly slew this way and that but occasionally they do circles. When they do this at night, it is how black holes are formed.

Emus don't fly really well, and therefore cannot do the cutting-air thing. But boy can they run fast. Once they get into full stride, each step is around five-hundred metres. We all know that the dad emu raises his plump chicks (well, he's the dad to a couple of them) and these chicks are born wearing brown and white striped footy jerseys and before you say that these belong to a certain Australian Rules Football Club, just settle, because putting your sporting biases on to a young bird _who hasn't even seen a game of Aussie Rules_ is unfair, and Aussie Rules is not a real game anyway. Besides, wearing vertical stripes makes the wearer look fat.

I saw a dad emu breasting the bank. His offspring were bustling around him as they all walked down to have a drink. I counted thirty-two chicks. Either we have a child-minding centre on a field excursion, an extended family to rival those of Italy, Greece, or Australia's original mob, or an emu who pops wee blue diamond-shaped pills. Imagine the sleepless nights, trying to keep up with school lunchboxes, and the worry of the teenage years?

'You want to what? Bring a girl emu home? Next you'll be wanting to borrow the wheels.'

I like emus. They are not stupid, they are students of the universe, they are bastions of inquiry and they are their own bird. And they are brown and dusty and make cool sounds.

Little friar birds read the river level reports every morning. Sometimes they sit on electricity lines. 'Oh no, Hun, we can't drink off that branch for a while, the water has dropped 0.00001 of a millimetre.' They can't drink off that branch because they hang upside down to drink. They hang upside down to eat as well. They also fly upside down. It's hard when they land.

'And why are you here at Fred's Physio today?'

'I think I may have bumped my left shoulder.'

A black kite, now named Mr Dark Brown because I am the giver of new bird names, was shadowing my campsite, but was too scared to swoop on the meal of fish I had left for him. He would circle, lower and lower in spirals like a reverse whirly-wind, but then at fifteen feet would tilt a wing, pull out, and go back high.

This was all because his parents had never let him make his own decisions. They demanded more, always solved his problems, and even questioned his teachers, coaches and potential girlfriends. This made him feel bad about himself. He had no confidence to tackle the world. It's unlikely he would ever survive his teenage years. I'm buggered if I know why parents do this. 'My little Billy only got an A+, what's going on here?'

Or, 'What do you mean my sweet honey got dropped from the Under-17 soccer team because he missed training seven thousand times?'

I coaxed him, in my best motivational voice since I talked four students into quitting school. I spoke softly, 'It's okay to have a go, you know. If you make failure welcome, you encourage success.' I have never believed this, but it sounded very Cool Runnings, a little Quitters Never Win and quite a bit You Suck At This. Inspirational quotes should be isolated to fridge magnets, desktop calendars or internet sites that deal with ancient civilisations. Or signs at the front of pubs and churches.

I threw a fish head along the beach and as it bounced, old Darkie swooped and plucked it up without as much as disturbing a grain of sand. And so, we played all afternoon. I tried leg-breaks, off-spin, I stuck chewing-gum to the fish head, even bowled an underarm, but he read me. And that, boys and girls, is how you get a head in life. I saw him later, with a stick and a golf-ball, whacking the ball over the fence, as he read a cricket rule-book.

I am now known as the kite whisperer.

White-necked herons are slightly thicker around the neck than their cousins, the white-faced herons. One plays rugby league, the other lawn bowls. And if another white-neck lands near its log, well doesn't it get narky. Croooak, get out of here, this is my section. Apart from possessiveness, jealousy and insecurity, these herons have another remarkable ability. I saw one lope out to the centre of the river, land and float in the water like a duck, pluck a fish then fly up, up and away in his beautiful balloon. What ever happened to the old hover and stab? The customary wade and spear?

No wonder the ducks are becoming bloody scarce. It's not those illegal Victorian shooters, it's the white-necked herons emulating the ducks' feeding habits and nicking the fish.

Barking owls and boobook owls must do some extra professional development, such as, a PhD in Linguistics, or at least read a few comics. They have to do this to go forward, to be more agile, to go upstream, and to have a conversation. With one another. Because their calls are almost the same. Perhaps a subtle difference in tone but not much else.

One must either add an inflection, a grace note or a new word. The barking owl could try, 'woof-woof, woof-woof, waah' and the boobook could give us 'mo-poke, mo-poke, diddly-do.'

And to make things interesting and somewhat puzzling in ornithological circles, swap their new call every couple of years.

'You know what I just heard? A barking owl.'

'Nah, it was a boobook for sure.'

##### 53

Beware of invisible cows

This is enough to make you give up drinking. How would you know the cows were there? See old Betsy's swinging bell? (Just after Betsy was milked by granny, who then drove into town in a Morris Minor to buy F-O-R-D pills.)

In eight hours of paddling, I saw twenty-seven dead sheep in the river, most of which were freshly dead. They had obviously been thrown from the top of the bank. Perhaps someone of Scottish descent had been practising for the upcoming caber throwing tournament. Truly, I saw twenty-seven. I must emphasise this verification in order to convince you because you might think I tell lies.

Shearing would be easy this year.

'Should be out of here in ten, boys. We've only got two this year.'

The ringer would be a shared award - one sheep apiece. The cook would have an easy shed, the sheep dogs put on weight and the rousie would fall asleep.

I came across the next possible statistic, in the water with his foot caught in a root, his head getting lower and lower into the water. He had landed short because Jock must have been getting tired. He (the trapped sheep) struggled, he flopped, and his head went under the water. Bubbles bubbled to the surface like they do in the movies when someone is drowning the good guy in a bathtub. They let him up every half-hour or so, to see if he'll talk but the poor bastard can't even begin to say anything because he just wants to suck some air, If the baddie would give our goodie a few extra seconds out of the water, he'd probably get those codes for the nuclear warheads. Some people are just so silly.

I screamed, 'Hang on dude, I will save you!' I screeched over, ignoring traffic rules, lollipop ladies about to blow their whistle twice (because that's the safe-to-cross signal), secret police radars (inside vans with 'Police Radar' on the side), and hit the handbrake. I lifted his head; I gave him those extra few minutes to take a breath, so he would tell me the rogue spy's phone number, but his eyes rolled, and he looked spent. I strained I grunted I got wet and muddy and I hauled his arse out. He looked up at me, after he had sucked some air, and said, 'It's 0411 566... it's... arrrgh...'

And he slithered back into the water and became number twenty-eight. And I didn't get to talk to that quisling mole.

I never found out why there were so many dead sheep in such a short distance. They weren't bogged and didn't seem ill or in bad condition. Must be them bloody Scottish.

##### 54

Fishing for children only. Limit 3.

Not sure what to say.

Occasionally, or a higher number of occasions than happens every now and again, particularly in August or September, there would be strong headwinds, often at the same time. I use the plural because sometimes it seems like it's not just one wind at the one time, like you would get off a pedestal fan or an air-conditioner with the fan set at 'stationary', but a wind that appears to be made of two parts, (a part, part, whole, which in this case is known as a wind, wind, situation) with the parts coming from different directions within the whole. Not a north and a south wind at the same time (otherwise you'd be in a windwich, along with aged cheddar, pastrami, lettuce and pickles which was last seen on a QANTAS flight from Sydney to Dubbo), but a wayward wind that has earned to wander.

A headwind at a canoe, even from single fan, creates a smoke alarm with a flat battery, a car with a flat battery or a hen without a battery, i.e. there is something there to do a job, but it can't because of something out of its control. Like politicians. Poor bastards get chosen but they can't do what we the people ask them to do because things are out of their control. That is, they are too busy covering up their rorts like expensive bottles of wine, partners who weren't partners back then, or working out how to claim travel expenses when buying personal real estate, attending grand finals or Olympic opening ceremonies.

Paddling a canoe into a headwind is a lose, lose, situation. It makes a restless canoe that is born to wander yonder.

Late one afternoon at camp, after surviving a lonely shack by a railroad track, the wind gods moved things up a notch, just to pull rank I'd say. You can never trust a wind, I've always said that. You'll end up with a broken heart. I watched the gum trees sway and lean, I watched the orange dust howling through the trees in a bowl of cone-shaped ice-cream, but I would not watch a small fire.

Just before dark the wind stopped as if someone had turned off the pedestal fan/s. The silt, struggling insects, birds and giraffes made a film on the water. A Kodak black and white of swirl and scum.

##### 55

Dig you soon.

Funeral parlour sign.

If you haven't crept up on a sleeping goat and stroked her chin, you have been hiding your love away. But don't throw it away, you might need it someday. Your brain has been asleep and if you don't act fairly quickly, your body will shrivel into a prune of neglect and turn to dust way before it should do so. This is merely a cautionary tale, because you still have time. You will need a gym membership enabling you to become curvy; you will need to become vegetarian and will most definitely have to give up smashed avocado on sourdough toast. Keep the latte, though.

Her muzzle was smoother than melted chocolate, softer than grandma's stubble, and sweeter than a cream-bun and jam. She murmured, 'Give you an hour to stop that.'

I said, "Listen honey, this is going to cost you.'

'No, not even if I were the only goat in the world. Besides, I has a headache.'

Who knew a goat would be in a subjunctive mood? I left her having her nanny-nap.

The other goats, after doing that cough/sneeze warning thing, had galloped into a neighbouring country. But now, when they realised that I wasn't a threat and they too were interested in being stroked, had caught a stand-by seventeen-hour non-stop flight back and walked to the top of the bank. I said, 'Take a number, you hillbillies.'

Goats, I love goats. Yet I reserve my overall judgement for them because of their tremendous ability to denude entire landscapes. Mars used to have forest until someone introduced goats; feral goats are why the Easter Islanders vanished and the real reason why the Roman empire moved to Byzantium. In New South Wales there are five million feral goats. More money is made from feral goats than sheep, cattle or lamington sales added together. We export nearly 70% of goat meat to the United States. No wonder they've got problems over there. Goat meat can be a bit strong for newbies, but it is really tasty. If, as a nation, we adopted goats as a regular meal, we could have a new twist in the Australian iconic pastime of boiling the billy. Not to mention a different management of our western country. If you eat meat, such as lamb, lizards or quail (you thought I'd have llamas there), keep in mind that goat meat is the most widely eaten meat in the world. So, if you want to be a part of the herd, roast a goat.

To assist you with access for your up and coming transition, or maybe change (if you are vegetarian, vegan or from Western Australia), there is a new $60 million abattoir being constructed just out of Bourke, and when completed, will kill up to 6,000 goats. Every day. As well as making slabs, legs and cuts available for you, this abattoir will be another export earner for Australia's failing economy (we have nothing left to mine, manufacture or make, because free trade costs too many jobs, too much money and too much disappointment).

It will also be a game-changer in the area of inducing sleep. Counting sheep to get to sleep used to be the go-to, the default and the original; but now goats have moved in to the natural sleeping pill industry.

Busloads of stressed city dwellers weighed down by the latest health-food trends, luke-warm coffee and diminishing live music venues because pokies have replaced the stages, and therefore unable to go to the land of nod, will flock to Bourke to count goats so they can get to sleep (the visitors, not the goats). Overseas tourists, from countries whose economies are supposed to have grown at 10% each week but are being really propped up by fictitious figures, fake news and false leaders, will fly in to the new international airport at Toowoomba and walk to Bourke (Henry's first walk) just to count goats so they (the visitors and the goats) can slip into a coma of forgetfulness. But not Henry, he never forgot.

Or could the new Bourke abattoir be used to count goats in order to stay awake? An opposite chevron of core data, ungulated, unregulated, or perhaps unnecessary?

When I'm on the river, I don't eat goats anymore. This has little to do with compassion for a beautiful animal, far from it, it's because they are now a vital part of a farmer's income.

##### 56

Stand closer. It's shorter than you think.

Not sure where I read that, but I don't get it.

The echidna, which was designed by a committee, has walked with dinosaurs (the soft-footed among the large lizards no doubt trod carefully), and is nature's way of reminding us not of our longevity, but of our mortality (a reversing mirror one could say, which would be handy if you were reversing a trailer around which were hundreds of males, all suggesting that you weren't a real man), because when we see a creature with such lineage, we realise that we officially have only three-score and ten. Anything you read in the bible is true, isn't it? And doesn't that go quickly. On today's reckoning, I have four to go. Better get cracking.

When you break it down, seventy years living life to the full ends up being around ten minutes in real terms, allowing for forward estimates, a differential incidence analysis and two demographic forecasts. Because the first twenty years or so is all about me, the next twenty is still me (and maybe a couple of small mes), the next twenty is spent spreading anxiety, pain and fear, and the next five are spent carrying on about personal health issues, lamenting about lost chances, and being vindictive to any family members within reach. The last five either return to _Poor me, why has god chosen me to live in pain and suffering_ , and thereby accusing others for their overuse of digital technology, or to _Why are you all destroying the planet because I never did_. The dubious belief that the world revolves around one person and the sin of blaming, are unfortunately, the real circles of life.

A few lucky ones escape the norm. A ninety-something year-old person (say, in the late 1980s) would have seen and been through some incredible changes. For example, domestic electricity, two world wars, world depressions (next one coming to a movie theatre near you shortly), motor cars, hippies, television, plastic, the Pill, computers, the moon landing, and the birth of rock and roll. Not to mention ABBA, a working knowledge of the ASX and several floods on the Darling.

But even though these were massive inventions and changes in social understanding (particularly the latter), can you imagine what echidnas have seen? Never mind nuclear explosions, women's liberation or compulsory education, I'm talking meteors slamming into the Earth, volcanic eruptions, magnetic field reversals and every rugby-league grand final since the game began.

Just before sunset a spikey hairbrush waddled past. I had a quick sticky (an echidna would laugh) and said, 'Hey, where have you been and what have you learnt lately?'

He looked up, his pointy nose all glistening, and said, 'What time-span you giving me?'

I knew straight away that I was in for a long evening. Nothing worse than being bailed-up by a talkative echidna especially when I started it. Even uncle Brian's slides from his 1982 European trip in which he saw fifty countries in six minutes, or the born-agains at the front door cannot match a talkative echidna.

'Well, back in the late cretaceous, my grandfather, or was it my great-grandfather? Anyway, one of them old blokes, said to me, "Ernie, be a thoughtful bioturbator and be careful where you put your tongue." So, basically, I've been out at a termite restaurant called _The Aint Ant_ for a while. You?'

When old folk tell a story from times gone by, they are insistent on getting the facts correct.

_'Well, when I was fifteen, or maybe sixteen, you can never be sure, you know what it's like, I was doing a shift for old Harry Baker. We delivered milk in bottles. No wait, I think it may have been Freddy Bloggs. And that would mean I wasn't fifteen or even sixteen. Nevermind. Where was I?'_

'Nah, I haven't tried termites yet. Anyway, you'd better be careful going to restaurants. I've seen your mob on the menu. _Tonight's special, Enchiladas._ '

Echidnas have radiating sharp spikes which they bring to a point with a flat bastard and a grinding wheel, then finish off with a stone, and when you touch an echidna it bristles these honed-spikes in wavy rows, like seaweed under a swell on a rocky headland. The spikes must be wired in with a Queensland hitch, because I tried to yank one out and it wasn't going anywhere. He got all prickly on me. I was after a quill to send to the lab to run some tests. Echidna's quills are made of keratin, which is sort of the same stuff as our fingernails, and researchers have used stable isotope analysis for clues to the animal's diet, which would surely come out as 'termites and ants'. If you were a rebel echidna, you could throw science into a frenzy, 'Hey Enid, pass us a beer and some salami will you, I see some boffins coming.'

The keratin also has a chemical record that reveals where the echidna has been living. Now that is amazing. Big surprises coming for scientists when they decipher the code and find out about the large reptiles.

What if our fingernails also had such information? Maybe that's why the baddies pulled fingernails off the goodies while they had them tied to a chair. Before they held them underwater.

##### 57

No trespassing without permission.

Some people have no manners.

The first lot of pigs I saw on this trip were scrawny - they were scraggly, sick and emaciated, and I never eat animals with such a complexion. As I got further downriver, they were fatter. I saw one laying in the mud next to the water line. I quietly drew close and grabbed one of his back legs. Every trip something weird happens with pigs (grabbing a wallowing pig by the back leg doesn't count).

Late one afternoon, I had made camp and saw something move out of the corner of my eye. It was very small. On top of the bank was a large orange and black boar. And he was watching me. This was unusual because in the past pigs either ran away from me or ran at me. And what was even more unusual was pigs don't have long-view eyesight. Or not much. Though this one did have a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. He followed me as I walked along checking my fishing lines. I'd stop, and he'd stop. We were playing a parallel game of What's the time, Mr Wolf? I decided to have a bit of fun, knowing full-well I had a river to jump in if he didn't appreciate my contribution. Mind you, I still remember the sow that dived in the river and chased me over forty years before. She may have been this one's great-great grandmother. I sprinted and stopped; he did the same. I did a somersault; he did too. I hid behind a dead log. I counted four minutes and peeked over. Even though he too was hiding behind a log, he made me (probably saw the burger wrappers, polystyrene coffee cups strewn everywhere). He peeked over when I did. One could say he spent long enough at the crease to satisfy the requirement of Section 44 of the Australian Constitution for dual citizenship, with no mea-culpa or by-election necessary. He was an obsessed fan, a stalker and had probably tapped my phone. If you are in my Contact's list, expect some ham mail soon, which may have an offer from a sow, to 'come rooting along the Darling.'

I gave up, had something to eat then went to bed. The next morning, he was gone.

At one camp the river wasn't wide, say twenty metres, and on dusk a huge black boar ambled down the opposite bank. I threw sticks at him. 'Go on, get outa here, you snivelling excuse for an animal, or I'll turn you into shaved ham.' Pretty heavy stuff, I'll admit, but with a body of water between us, several climbable trees nearby and a false confidence based on a hiding to nothing, I felt comfortable giving a bit of lip.

'Huh,' he retorted, 'You are a gnashnab.'

'Listen, you lump of bacon, I have forgotten more about this river than you'll ever know.'

The boar headed down to the water's edge and stepped his front feet in. I thought, 'Here we go, it's run away time, Tony.' But he had a drink and then walked back up the bank.

'That's right walk away from me. You'll be a better pig for it.'

'Seriously? I was just getting ready.'

I was ready for the challenge. 'I bet you slide a knife into a plum pudding to seek out the threepences.'

'Do you fear death?'

Okay, never mind answering my Christmas insult, you just go straight in. 'Well, yes and no.'

'Indecisive as usual I see.'

'You?'

'No, I'm not indecisive...'

'That's not...'

'In the animal world, death is never feared. It rides in our shadow every minute. And while we sure as hell try to get away if it gets too close, it is an accepted part of lives.'

I agreed but I wasn't so sure. 'Don't go out into the sun, you'll live longer.' I had him. 'And anyway, you pollute.'

'And you don't?'

'You kill things.'

'Please.'

You're introduced.'

'You're not? All we're talking about is a really small-time frame yes?'

He had me. This was not going as planned. I had expected him to be fearful, not back-answery. But I threw in my best insult. 'You're black.'

'Be careful with that one. By the way, you done that ancestry thing yet?'

'You're fat.'

'And you need a mirror within a mirror. You pretend, you lie, you're greedy, you're not nice, you have eaten my cousins, and you scared my great-great grandmother in 1976.'

'Sorry, but comeon, you do shit everywhere, dig up the soil and create great damage.'

'See previous comment re pollution. Could it be that you think you know something about everything? Or everything about everything?'

Ignorance is not a valid excuse, but then, nor is not being humble. Hell, I was going down. I was at 13% without dividends, with only a 2% gain, and I had a limited exponential trajectory. But I rallied, 'Listen buddy, I have seen your last five Google searches and let me tell you, they are not pretty.'

I think he mentioned something about mine being suss too and that he would, at any given time, contact the media and we'd disclose our last Google searches and late-night movie choices. Anyway, I powdered. The insults eased and when they finally stopped, I looked across and saw not a pig.

Even though the pig had vanished, my own reality was still in the way of me seeing myself clearly. Maybe I too, like my porcine reflection, will prod for the pre-decimal silver coins like I may or may not have done when I was a kid? A mirror in a mirror can be confronting. But not because of the backwards writing, the left to right orientation or the virtual image that keeps up and down in their correct places. It can be confronting because of its way of forcing you to see you, as you really are, regardless of your orientation or your rose-coloured glasses. This can be challenging because self-delusion creates perceived beliefs in its own atmosphere within an atmosphere.

Another's' reality often gets in the way of our life too. It can destroy our innocence, inspiration and limit our ability to hear music. This form of insidious reality is the new sugar, the new milkshake and the new dinner plate with a diameter of two metres with only a splodge and a squiggle somewhere adjacent to the centre. It is the new quinoa, the new kombucha and the new probiotics. And this reality that is not yours (and therefore belongs to the media, accepted social norms and possibly some of your immediate family), means that you/we start to fret about the future, and are therefore lost. Because worrying achieves very little. It actually feeds trolls who live underground. You know that saying that says if you say, _Thank you_ after you have sneezed, and someone has said _Bless you_ , a fairy dies, well, when you worry unduly, a troll moves closer to the earth's surface. And once trolls break through, even though they may only live for twenty-four hours, they can then search for a mate and breed. And you know what damage an extended family can do; global warming, the crash of the European Union, and the reason why there's only six balls per over, who knows. One of my extended family members is still deliberating over one of my books and I know she has contacted the Vatican, the Australian Federal Police and several members of the Country Women's' Association for forgiveness, legal advice and a scone recipe. Not necessarily in that order. Might send her a photo of a sow. And a mirror.

Or should I ignore all realities and simply clap twice and bring back the dead fairies and stop the trolls? And not rub the water vapour off the mirror of life and be blind to it all?

Then I could see forever without reflecting?

##### 58

Forbidden fruits create many jams.

Church sign.

From the same op shop in Bourke where I had previously bought _Smokey Joe's Café_ , I bought _The Last Coyote_ , by Michael Connolly. Crime fiction has great twists and turns and there is great pleasure in working out some of them. Not to mention the analogies, metaphors and the one-liners. This book had all those but was a wee bit depressing, yet underneath the depths were some enlightening moments. Comments on life, love and being lonely. And being true. Not to mention a slight break in the rules will cause grief yet it may also yield dividends.

Way back I read _Even Cowgirls get the Blues_ by Tom Robbins and loved the quirkiness and the literary rule-breaking in its weird way. Chris from the Gidgee Guesthouse said, 'Here take this with you.' This, was _Skinny legs and All_ by Robbins and he challenges life by saying certain preconceptions will never be. Tom Robbins is sure as hell an abstract writer, but he will lure you into his world of fantasy as reality. And you will not need to clap.

In Australia, we have what are called droughts. These are normal events, though perhaps exacerbated by human activity, and are pretty much devastating for all concerned. They engender denuded landscapes, pain and death. Sometimes there are warnings over time that a drought is imminent. For example, a changed rain pattern, no specials at the hardware store or unforgiven family members. And then, after possibly ten years, the rains come and away we go again.

In 2016 in western New South Wales it was wet. Locally wet, and the land was humming with fecundity. The Darling was also up from this winter season and great prosperity was had by all.

However, when I paddled from Bourke to Louth this year, less than 12 months from the Elysium Fields, it was a severe drought. I was shocked that the cracked earth, the trees shedding leaves and the gasping birds could be here so quickly. Shows you how little I know about the bush.

And because of that lush season there was a visitor, who was now standing a metre tall in the dryness and annoying everyone - the Noogoora Burr. It is not native, it is evil, and it enjoys the inland rivers. It is rough-leaved annual shrub that can grow in dense thickets and while green, frogs like hiding in there and therefore snakes go there. When the burr dies, which it had now done in this quick-dry time, the fruit (about 20 millimetres long), a hard, woody sheep-shit sized pod, with two seeds, can stay on the stem, or fall to the ground. Once on the ground, they form layers way more efficient than Roman Legions, American Civil War lines or End of Financial Year Sale queues, and they have sharp spines. The burrs too, which just love attaching themselves to unwary campers, sheep or goats. A goat, totally brown with burr over its pretty soft grey coat, gave me a dirty look, as if his predicament was my fault. I said, 'Off you go to the oasis and don't look back in Angora.'

The fruit also floats, so when the Darling floods again, which it will, everyone downstream of Louth will end up with a surprise.

##### 59

Anyone who says they like portaging is either a liar or crazy.

This is from Bill Mason, _the_ canoeist.

Here are some more ways that I have read where manhood could be demonstrated:

1. Wearing nylon swimmers that are too small.

2. Displaying economic maturity.

3. Reversing a trailer _in front of other men_ , or, as stated previously,

4. Showing strength and guile when carrying stuff around obstacles.

I have responses to these examples, most of which are sensible (the examples I mean). And it turns out that I come in at 50:50 in the manhood stakes. Which is an interesting ratio and one which continues to annoy me.

1. _Wearing nylon swimmers that are too small._ This would be shameful (for others). I gave up wearing budgie smugglers of any size fifty years ago. These days when I'm in the surf I wear three pairs of boardshorts over four pairs of undies then wrap a beach towel around the lot. Slows me down a bit but I manage. When I do eventually catch a wave in, the lifesavers use the swell to train their nippers in rescue techniques. Number one is not mine.

2. _Displaying economic maturity._ My initial thought was, You are kidding me. I can't even add up correctly let alone recognise what Australian currency looks like. 'But Mr Pritchard, you're a teacher.' Yeah, yeah. Before you cast asparaguses at me, I dare you to tell me someone who has economic maturity. A banker? We are having a Royal Commission into banking in Australia, to look at their scandals, limited accountability and illegal practices, such as forging signatures, laundering and creating unauthorised accounts. The stock exchange? Two days ago, I read where the Australian Stock Exchange lost over $50 billion. Hope they find it. Must be lying about somewhere. The Treasury? Our current Treasurer lied to the public when he ignored his own treasury advice on the opposition's negative gearing idea, which stated that there'd be a 'small' impact on home values. The treasurer used terms like 'crash', '... take a sledgehammer to the property market', a '... chainsaw, an axe...'. I suspect this response was decided upon either at a sausage sizzle out the front of a hardware store, having a bog, or half-time at the footy.

At first glance, my position seemed a bit shaky (i.e., over 66, no pension, no super, no hospital cover, no funeral insurance, no savings and several tin piggy-banks jagged open with an old-fashioned can-opener, plus the no-adding up skill and ), but so far, I haven't done anything illegal (well, not much) nor have I lied or cheated anyone out of their money. These examples of greed, illegal behaviour and general incompetence, make me look good. In my own way, point number two on the manhood list belongs to me.

3. _Reversing a trailer_ in front of other men, I am totally inept at this. It's reversing in more ways than one. For example, to make the trailer go that way, you must turn the steering wheel this way. An opposite of reversals. And some fool yelling, 'Use your mirrors you idiot', is not particularly helpful. Anyway, have you seen most side mirrors these days? They are so heavily magnified, astronomers use them to watch a solar eclipse. And these mirrors, for reversers and forwarders alike, give a false sense of spatial awareness, to say the least. They are downright dangerous and should be banned. I have done my bit to promote a safer driving environment by breaking them off whenever I see them.

'What are you doing mate?'

'Just checking your side mirrors. Dearie me...'

I use one side-mirror instead of binoculars for birdwatching. Birds think I'm looking the other way. Side mirrors always have a blind spot. If, for instance, you're in a four-lane roadway (that is, two going the same way on your side) and you'd like to pass grandpa in the tan Volvo or the little old lady in the light green Morris Minor who sits so low she looks through the steering wheel (I have seen them, hands gripped at a quarter to and a quarter past, jiggling them up and down like she's still milking Betsy - just before she drove to town to buy her Ford pills), you would indicate, and after looking in the side mirror to check that the lane next to you is clear, away you'd go. But strangely enough, just as you gave yourself the thumbs-up and veered a tiny bit, a bloody great roadtrain blasts you into the next universe. You didn't see him literally next to you because the view the mirror gives you _has a blind spot_. That means you'd have Buckley's of seeing a motor bike or a horse and cart delivering bread. Let alone the edges of a skinny boat ramp or carport posts.

Because I have attempted to reverse a trailer so often, I can now twist my head around like an owl's. I have evolved so that my scone sits on a ball and socket joint. I'd be good riding shotgun in a western, or in the top turret in a bomber.

Number three does not belong to me, nor will it ever do so, and I don't care.

4. _Showing strength and guile when carrying stuff around obstacles._ I have got this, though I suspect that Bill Mason may be correct. I am so good I will show off to anyone within fifty kilometres. If I were to accidently spear a piece of broken wood into my leg, I would simply reach for a razor blade and a bottle of Listerine. That's how tough I am. For this list item, I invented the term, 'canoeing manliness'. After you read the following incident, you will bow in homage whenever you see me, read about me or see my photo.

Around the weir above Louth, I did a portage so difficult it did not register on the international scale of difficultness. It was above the Richter Scale, a spectrophotometer and a new Tachometer. It was so difficult, so arduous, I knew I was better than the voyageurs. Carry 80 kilograms? You've got nothing, Frenchies. I carried 400 kilograms per load from the waterline up a ten-metre bank (angle: 85 degrees), along two kilometres of flat grey bank covered in burr, logs and deadly snakes, then down a tortuous twelve metre path (the banks always get longer as you move downstream - everyone knows that) between razor-sharp rocks, twisted branches, and orthopaedic appointments, onto the waterline.

And I did it five times. Without stopping. _Je suis aussi plein de conneries_ (I think that one translates as, I am also full of bullshit). And I was sooo cocky, especially after reassuring myself that I, the experienced river person, would never stumble getting around a weir, unlike Arthur back there at weir 19.

The icing on the French pastry was the canoe. I was in such a mood I thought I could hoist it and balance it on my nose - upright (4.65 m remember). But not wanting to brag, (I mean, the Froggies already have such compensation issues they had to have that big lamppost erected, sent a giant statue to the Yanks and somehow managed to deface the Louvre with a bloody great triangle, the concept for which they nicked off several thousand other cultures much older than their own), I dragged the canoe up, along the three miles on top of the bank and steadied her ready for lowering down that steep fifteen metre bank (or was it eighteen metres?), the one totally gauntleted with rusty star pickets, rustier barbed wire, and dodgy French translations.

As I lowered the canoe down the steepness, feeling somewhat _Stand to the side, mes bouquet de chattes_ , it took off and dragged me with it. I tumbled, stumbled and crumbled twenty-metres past paling fences, dead animals and acrobatic workshops and hit the water's edge, reasonably hard I recall. I sat up, dusted myself, counted four limbs, one head and no brains, checked the canoe as it bounced merrily in the water, and said to nobody, 'C'est des conneries!'

From the near distance came a tirade of French words. I have translated them here to save you the trouble: _Monsieur, vous-etes nothing but a beer-gutted bludger. You are a bored-shitless bodgie, a bastard who bites his bum, a Buckley's person who makes Bondi cigars, who is a bung bag of fruit. Bloody oath!_

Did my best with that translation. I can't help it if the Voyageurs can't speak properly.

Below the weir in the frothy water, there was a lone male swan, defined by footy shorts, navy-blue singlet and thick lower neck. And judging by the latter, he was obviously a former rugby league player. From New South Wales of course (evident because of the tears of disappointment brought on by ten straight losses in the Origin series against Queensland, a lack of respect when it comes to communicating with females and a sense of entitlement not seen since Menzies was buried), and he asked advice on how to get to the nearest rehab clinic.

I get asked some unusual questions on the Darling and this one was up there. But I had it covered, because the day before (that is, the day before my victory over the French-Canadians) I had passed some goats, a fairly common if not slightly disturbing sight along the river when you paddle quietly, and a baby goat, a just-born, spindly-legged thing, was separated from its mother. The poor baby bleated pitifully and its mother, now invisible behind a fallen tree, ignored it. This is akin to letting babies cry in the cot. 'Oh, let's just leave her there till she learns who's in charge here.' My heart was broken. This poor terrified baby had just seen a hairy man in a red canoe and was traumatised and not feeling real safe. Still, its mother ignored it. God save us, who let you become a parent? Babies cry because they can't friggin talk. And when they do learn to express themselves with language, you still ignore them. No wonder teenagers rebel.

I called out to the doe, I said, 'Jeez lady, please let your kid know where you are?' She kept eating bark.

I referred the baby goat into a clinic (along with its mother), and also booked a room for the disturbed swan. I like being nice to swans.

##### 60

Horse spelling

'Okay Trigger, spell hay. What's that? You want it in a sentence? Not a hope.'

Horse then taps his front feet in Morse code: Y-E-L-L.

As I sat in the canoe, a few days out from Louth, gently drifting and paddling, I checked the map, as I did every three seconds. The map was a cut out of the river's route from the original big-folded out map and was bulldog clipped to a wooden board. I had a large plastic cliplock bag ready in case of rain. These maps were 1:100,000 (one centimetre equals one kilometre) and they show every bend. Mostly. I say mostly because a left turn can be a kink and not a turn and vice versa. And so I tick every bend that is a definite bend, so I know where I am. Near the bends.

The map is orientated to face me, as it is. What I mean is, because I was looking at the map as one would look at a map, that is, with Bourke at the top (sort of) and Louth at the bottom (sort of), or a section in between these two great cities, a left-hand bend would, in actuality, be a right-hand bend because I was travelling _down_ the river from top to bottom. I know what you're thinking, Why not turn the map upside down Tony, because then what was would be what really was.

And what? Spoil my fun?

Every eight-year-old is taught that the earth's rotation creates what is called sunrise and sunset. I know this because I've had four different Year Three classes so far this year, and it's only term one. This is a difficult concept to grasp, not me working with little kids, but expecting the kids to understand that this planet is a-moving around.

'But sir, why don't people fall off as the Earth spins at 1,600 kph?'

'Well, some do. Young George is absent today, isn't he?'

'Why does the Earth have a tilt?'

'Too many fat people in the southern hemisphere.'

'Sir, why is there twenty-four hours in a day and not twenty?'

'Ask your mother.'

'Sir, sidereal or solar?'

'Get back to work.'

One day there was a halo around the sun, a hazy rainbow pure circle of light around the big light. Besides realising that the sun supports gay people, it was clearly a warning from God that He'd had enough. Maybe His calendar read, 'the year 7510'. Perhaps we all should wear hardhats for a bit and hang on to the door jamb.

Each day, the sun had different phases, or different meanings, according to the feel. For example, at around 9am the day had a distinct, I am in the morning feel. At around 11am, I could tell it was about to turn. At 3pm, I felt Oh My God, it's getting so late. If I managed to get over myself and the fears of being stranded in the canoe, and it became 4.30pm or so, I felt I had plenty of time in which to find a camp.

If it was cloudy I was lost.

One day, way past the nice and relaxed 4.30pm, I could see no campsites, just steep banks, steep slippery mud or steep train wrecks. Panic seeped in because to rush and find a campsite is dangerous, damaging and depressing. And again, I asked the old river for a sign. Actually, I asked for three, because I'm almost a local and therefore can claim privileges. And they came.

1. I saw a fallen log in the water just before a sharp bend.

2. Three red kangaroos ambled down the steep bank to drink (they're not actually red, they are a soft orange) and,

3. even though it was just before sunset, a tawny frogmouth Oomed.

The first was important because whenever the river is in flood, a fallen log and its spreading branches on a bend can capture the sand and gently place it around the corner to make a perfect future campsite. It had and therefore I stayed.

The second was a beautiful thing because whenever I see the natural environment go about its business (except for example, if it's a cyclone and I'm in its path), I feel good inside. It's a welcoming feel, and one that lets me appreciate rhythms, beauty and even perhaps a little danger, even though nature in no way cares about me. Or you, sorry. On this particular afternoon, I saw the beauty. Birds may have hollow bones to assist with their flying process, but our red kangaroos have gone one better. They can hop so fast and high because they have hollow tails. Because they fly so well, one of these kangaroos is represented on the tail of a certain airline. Which we used to own.

The third was special because boobooks may call in daylight, owlet nightjars make a habit of doing so, but I have never ever heard a tawny frogmouth call while there's light in the sky. Obviously, it was a nocturne calling me home.

Sandy beaches along the Darling are where the world, if it chooses, can come together in harmony. Might get a bit crowded though, I suppose. My teeth, from eating food cooked on a sandy beach, have been ground to be in line with my gums. The hard red sand at the water's edge is firm to the touch. It is walkable, solid and has sand dune-like ripples in the shallows. Sort of a miniature Sahara or Simpson Desert, but darker. Above that you get the soft yellow sand in wee shelves, like little plateaux, and it is there where the tent goeth. But first you must look around, carefully. Because on every sandy beach I saw dotterels and I just knew they had nests and these nests are jolly hard to see. They are ground nesters and scoop a little depression and surround this with small bits of charcoal, pebbles and fine sticks.

I would stop and look, I would pretend, just like these nonchalant dotterels did, but I could not find a nest with eggs. And I certainly didn't want to make camp on a nest.

One afternoon, a pair of dotterels played me like a fool, a musical instrument, a song on loop. I had given up searching for their nest and started dumping gear. As I bent down to pick up the tent, there next to it was a dotterel's nest, with three eggs. Dotterels are the reason I now wear glasses.

In choosing a campsite, one must do angles, one must watch, and one must smell the air and check for bad things that may dwell there. For example, catheads, dissidents wearing cardigans or rap music. Then decide where the home will be that night. Yes, you say to yourself, the tent can sit there (facing away from the wind), the fire there in a hole right next to the river for water access and safety (and downwind of the tent opening because you wouldn't want the smoke alarm going off all the time), and the canoe and gear can be unloaded just there.

Opposite these mono-places of self-choosing harmony, is often a tan, clay bank, around fifteen metres high, cluttered with grey logs, grey branches and an exclusion of anything resembling the colour yellow. These high banks soar over a deep Darling River hole, and these holes are spooky. They are so still (and still waters run deep, remember, though Joe South never said anything about bunyips when he was talking about rose gardens) that the water actually becomes a heavy liquid, the sort required by nations who pretend they are using their uranium for peaceful purposes, and they are full of bunyips.

I wouldn't swim in a deep Darling hole, ever. If the bunyips or deuterium don't get you, the underwater branches will. People think these submerged branches have been dead for hundreds of years, but that is simply not true. They may be connected to a mighty dead tree, one which, when alive up there, used to enable several hundred different species of bird, mammal and reptile to reside within its hollows, but now shelters the ghosts of pearl divers, downed warplanes and murray cod, but they sway (even though there's no current), and are always on the lookout for unsuspecting swimmers. These branches can and will reach up from their graveyarded lair and gently encircle your ankle so softly you won't know it; until you try to swim, possibly up to get a breath of air. Then the panic sets in. If you do escape one of these holes (so far, only one person has lived to tell the tale, a fisherman called Splinter Johnson), your irrational fear will take over your mind and you will end up a blubbering idiot sitting in a large soft chair in the looney bin.

'Why are you here Fred?'

'I tried to work out the plots in Game of Thrones. You, Splinter?'

'I went for a swim in a deep hole on the Darling.'

Sound of motorised wheelchair wheels squealing as Splinter vacates. 'My Valerian sword. Now!'

I put up the canvas-covered tent with fine mesh on all sides under the canvas - which is handy on these hot just-past August nights because of the assortment of crawlies and Neil Diamond songs - in my new beaut spot just down from that fallen log that had given me the sand. I felt joy in the solitude, because I'm a solitary man. And I said, 'Hello again.'

During any given night on a sandy beach there are things that crawl. Everyone thinks that snakes at night are the big danger, but this is not true. Earwigs with erect pincers patrol the beach, menacing scorpions, cocked and ready to fire wait patiently, spiders with twinkling eyes and toothy grins; these are what will get you. If you shine a light at your life-saving mesh you will see all these creepy crawlies, watching. And waiting. If you don't zip properly, you're in for a hard night.

I touched the sand and after I gave out thanks to something, somewhere, or possibly someone somewhere, I went for a walk. And as I walked around the corner (upstream of where I had made camp), I saw someone somewhere. Maybe it was Shiloh come to me at last?

There are times in life when you meet someone, often by accident in an out-of-the-way place, like Dubbo, Dubai or the Darling River, rather than a workplace, a family gathering or at a bar drunk, and this person glows. They will not glow with the façade of sucking-up, the inner heat-glow of 'No, not another Sunday visit,' or the high-intensity glow only copious amounts of alcohol can guarantee, but they will glow with a peace that forces you to take a deep breath and revaluate your life as it has been, as it currently stands and what the hell will you do with the rest of your life.

He was on the opposite bank, sitting on an upturned milk crate, just fishing. Where did he come from? He wasn't there when I paddled past. We waved, and because the river here wasn't that wide, only about a metre, we talked. No ghosts here move on people. He was Bill Parish, and, wait for it, he had been coming to this same spot on the Darling for a little over eighty years.

After I had attempted to digest patience and persistence, and having limited success, moved past the three dimensions of space and one of time and into the fifth dimension, the one of love, compassion and spiritual wisdom, I then saw that this old bloke had a glow, an aura that transported him way beyond this river to an unparalleled universe of human-made dimensions. He had that serenity that cannot be wished for or read about; it must be lived. Bill _was_ serenity.

That night, I thought about Bill (who, by the way, had caught three decent yellowbelly while we were talking), and I got great strength just knowing he had been fishing there, just a bit upstream; and that he was still there.

And I stayed for three days, flying, touching the sun, and drinking the rain. I spoke with Bill each day. And each day after we spoke, when I returned to camp, I stared into my little fire. And I went inside the little fire. I captured the staring coals, the solitude and the beach, and I folded them in a blanket to take home. I saw music, universes, and what we all could be if we all glowed like Bill.

The male western red kangaroo is orangey and is called a boomer, and the female is a grey/blue, and is called a blue flyer. People who work (cough, cough) in offices use flyers. And they use terms like, Assmosis, Brain Fart and CGI Joe. I'm sorry; I need to be nasty occasionally. However, blue flyers can also be orange and vice-versa. You just have to check the undercarriage.

The male human, from the top down, has the penis first then the testicles. You may have known this. But the buck boomer (currently weighed down by redundancy at its best) has his testicles above his penis. Before you even think about thinking the blue girls are way more normal, get a load of this; the female kangaroo has three vaginas. So there.

The muzzle of both genders, even the swapees, confused or straight, is soft and worthy of touching. Ask first, else you might get a kick in the teeth, and if permission be granted, be careful what you're about to touch. It might be in a different place.

The tawny frogmouth _Podargus strigoides_ , is so named because they have gout and listen to sacred music from the 16th century. I may have taken liberties there. _Podargus_ relates to gout yes, because the tawny frogmouth has weak feet and primarily uses its strong beak to capture its prey. This is unfair to say the least. What if humans were named because of their weaknesses? We could have fun here. _Homo erythrops_ , the last word meaning ' _red face_.' I'm thinking when you're drunk at the Christmas party, getting rejected when you flirt, or even every Saturday morning. Or something to do with erections or one version of sexuality. Maybe we should stop there.

Or, _versicolor_ , meaning, ' _different coloured_.' Now I know we are stopping there.

Alessandro Striggio was an Italian composer, and that is almost a travesty to put him so basic in description. If you've got nothing to do this weekend, hop on YouTube and listen to his _Missa sopra Ecco sì beato giorno_ , with its 40 different voice parts. And don't even think about comparing it with the much later Thomas Tallis's, _Spem in alium_. Long bow aside, _strigoides_ alludes to the owl-like nature of frogmouths; but they aint owls. Maybe they sing choral work when there's forty of them together? Tawny frogmouths have a nice moustache. They grow these to support tawnvember, which raises awareness of prostate cancer, anxiety, depression and any other male-identified physical or emotional issues. Of which there may be a couple.

Tawny frogmouths apparently are not scared of humans but I'm not so sure that this is an exclusive, because when discovered by anything currently alive on the planet, under the earth's crust or even from Mars (not that them bloody goats have left much), frogmouths have the same unscaredness. They don't become statues, they are statues. Bitterns book in for lessons. And frogmouths, when in surprise/disguise mode, have been mistaken for pot plants, elves or one-dollar notes. And my god, the stare. You never want to be death-stared by a tawny frogmouth. It's unrelenting. They never friggin' blink. If you ever somehow accidently find yourself looking directly at a tawny frogmouth, either close your eyes or jump. I climbed a tree once (it was enough) on the Barwon to investigate a frogmouth's nest which had three large squished-in-the-nest babies, plus mum, dad, and a selection of aunties, uncles and several camp followers, all with their eyes closed. As I shimmied closer, they all opened their flame-orange and black eyes and stared at me. I leapt off into the river.

The frogmouth call, a repeated Oom, is rarely heard during the daylight hours. And they never hit the high notes.

There is a sign that is often seen at the entrance of wilderness areas that reads, _Take nothing but photos leave nothing but footprints_. Over my time on our inland rivers, whenever I break camp, I clean up after myself (though to walk in to my study or shed at home in Brisbane you may doubt this). I put the chairs away, the books back in their shelf, and I sweep any traces of my camp with a leafy branch. There's another bit to this sign that says, _Kill nothing but time_. That one doesn't apply to me. Because time cannot be killed.

##### 61

Caution. Water on road during rain.

Sounds worse than it means to.

The last day into Louth involved three long sections of rock bars, and rock bars are exciting. Exciting because you may leave a portion of the canoe on some rocks, exciting because you will get stuck on a nearby sandbar and exciting because you may or may not escape drowning. And that's just the good news.

In these shallow rock bar reaches on a low Darling, there are channels, and these channels are hard to pick. There are no patterns. None. They wriggle, are inconsistent, and they bloody well tell lies. Just when you think you've sorted it, you come to a grinding halt. So, there are times when you must hop out and push. As you slip, slop, and slap the canoe, some of the sandbars are hard to walk on, as in, they have a solid base. And you will get wet, cold, and may occasionally swear in frustration. But every now and again, some of the sand just under the shallow water, is soft, real soft. And if you weren't leaning on something, for instance a red canoe, you would slowly be drawn down to the centre of the earth. Several times I have been up to my chest in sucky sand, saved only by the old red canoe. This is true so take care if you venture.

When you see one of these rock bars across the shallow Darling, you usually end up in fast water, hitting sharp rocks at speed and saying bigger swear words than you might have said before. Which is disconcerting, disheartening and disappointing because of all the money you must then place in the swear jar. The canoe scrapes, scratches and scrimps. I made that last one up. You may wince, whiten and worry, but if you trust the canoe, as I always did, there's a big chance you'll be wonderfully wazzled.

Around rock bars, there are always stacks of water birds. Not the swampy types, like coots, bitterns (too busy getting upright-disguisy lessons off frogmouths) or reed warblers, because this is open water with little vegetation cover. The area around a rock bar is loaded with cormorants, pelicans and herons. Most of which, when I passed through, leant forward and stared, open beaked. Not because they were in awe of my precise canoeing skills in six-inch deep death-defying whiteish-water, but because they couldn't believe I had made it this far. They didn't hold back with the incredulousness, disbelief or doubt. Where was the faith? It's disappointing when water birds lose confidence in you.

There was a tailwind, and it was present because during the past week I had so many headwinds I got cranky with god and she had wavered and turned it around. I had called her out. 'Hey, if this is the best you've got - please.' She had softened because I had dared challenge her constant niggling. I had said, 'Hey, what about me too?' And now, with this divine tailwind I had not only saved fuel, but I would arrive earlier than planned. 'This is your captain speaking. (We all stand on tables and parrot, _Good morning, our Captain Speaking_ ) Today, or minus 1 day, we will be arriving at Wambalang International Airport early because of the strong tailwinds. It will now be 0600 last Tuesday. The temperature is lousy, it is raining cats and dogs and, in a tick, turn on your digital devices. Not yet you bastards. Wait till I say when. Please inform your social media followers, your pets, family members (in that order), and airport pick-up limos that you will be early. And to all of you who think you might have qualified for a membership for that special club, well tough, because I only flew at 5,000 feet. Thank you from No-Room-To-Sit Airlines. Have a nice extra day.'

The wind was a restless wind, a wind that still yearned to wander; a wind that was so aggressive it blew the blue out of the sky until it became white; a wind so manic that the few clouds remaining, the ones that weren't in another galaxy, were a thin, bleached cheesecloth leftover from a hippie commune. Leaves turned over and showed their light green and grey. The river was a whipped cream of grey choppy waves.

And so it came to pass, that on this blustery final leg of Le Tour de ma Cherie, the one where I arrived before I left, I cycled down that final straight before Louth. And as I looked around me, the water was full of turtles, paddling furiously, but seemingly getting nowhere. They were racing me to the finish line.

And as I paddled towards the Louth bridge, gaining slightly on the hundreds of splashing webbed-feet behind me, I realised what the turtles were doing. Yes, they had won the spotting game before, easily I might add, but they were showing sportsturtleship. They would let me win this race. Even though this was a little, _Every kid gets a sticker_ , and a bit more, _No-one fails the course_ , I didn't care, I still felt honoured, because accepted and enjoyed praise always denies its obvious intentions no matter how devious.

They also lined the banks nodding their knobby heads up and down, and they sat on the Louth bridge, their little webbed feet hanging down, kicking back and forth like you did when you sat on a bridge as a little kid. And all the while cheering. Well, grunting and hissing anyway. I was welcomed by a dule of reptiles, a bale of aquatic joy, and quite a few turtles. And it was turtles all the way down.

They didn't need to kneel on one knee when they heard the anthem of the bush, they didn't need to vote in a postal survey that would take six weeks to reach its destination and cost millions of dollars which could have been used for education, health or Cooper's Pale Ale, they believed that the river would make decisions and always do the right thing by them. Maybe Australia could have a turtlemocracy. Be a bit low, muddy and stinky, but a so much better low, muddy and stinky than we currently have.

As I paddled down the Champs-Elouthysees there were turtles handing me drinks, giving high fives, fist bumps and _beaucoup des bises_. One even slapped me on the bum. I said, 'Mate, we're not playing rugby league here, you know.' Another six attempted to jump on my back. I still have claw marks down my shoulders, crushed ribs and a twisted neck. Another did a knee slide. When I see soccer players do that, I wait for the collision with a sprinkler that didn't lower itself when it was supposed to. The damage to the sprinkler would be expensive to fix.

Banners were held high (around nine inches off the ground) and they flapped to welcome me:

_Canoeists stroke better._

_Canoeists are liars._

_Turtle lovers keep it slow and steady._

_Sometimes._

_Sexy women love canoeists._

_Canoeists love sexy women_

Two turtles were on a jet ski ahead of me, the back one turned to face me with a video camera which would stream footage live to TurtleTube. When the operator stopped for a break to lay some eggs or to eat a mussel, it could be said that this videoing was ex-stream.

A spectator swam out between me and the cameraturtle and was taken out by a police officer in a side tackle. Another turtle cast her shell and ran through the crowd. The colour could be described as naughty pink and she could be thought of as either neked, slutty or homeless, depends on which side of town you were raised. The same police officer crashed her to the ground followed by a sneaky elbow to the throat. This solid defence sparked the interest of two of Queensland's rugby league scouts, who just happened to be sinking a coldie next to the Darling.

'Hey Mal, you see those hits?'

'Sure did, Kevie. Let's check where she was first a ninja turtle.'

And as they were doing rigorous research, utilising the hefty inuendo, rampant rumour and limited truths found sprinkled in an American's newspaper, they discovered that Miss Defence 2017 had a record as long as her claw. Trashing hotel rooms, trying to emulate a bubbler, and not unloading the ball. But she had been exonerated because she had a 'medical condition.'

'Let New South Wales have her; she would fit in well.'

She now has a contract with a Sydney rugby league club, still owes millions in compensation, and upon being questioned as to whether she was of good character and even be allowed to play rugby league, the club's spokesman said, 'We will send her to Thailand for counselling, receive puppy abuse treatment, ban her from drinking bottled water and always, I say always, let her get the ball flat-footed. Then after her rehab, we'll slip her straight into front row, and of course let her possess, shoot, snort or smoke cocaine and not get convicted. We're trying to clean up the game you know.'

Even though the turtles had let me win against them, I did not get the first past-the-post yellow jersey. Arthur in the kayak got the yellow jersey, the bottle of bubbly and the cute turtles next to him (they were there, you just had to look lower) because he was the overall leader in life. But he also wore yellow because it was recognised that he was tough, brave, and, more importantly, that he was an inspiration. And although it is universally acknowledged that love and understanding the self can change the world, so too can inspiration that is not based on results in a false world, but on fire in the belly. Go Arthur.

Mark the paddle-boarder got green, the sprinter's jersey. He was so fit and strong, and had such a genuine passion for travel, life and family that he was the unanimous choice.

And even though I came in third, I too got a special jersey. I have taken down my family photos, my grand-final pockets, and my second-class report card, and in their place, I have this jersey the turtles gave to me. It has a milky tea colour background, and a picture of a turtle with the words underneath, _Revenez bientot_ , which translates directly as, _Come back soon, you great fisherman, you fantastic bird watcher, you master of lame jokes etc..._ You get the picture.

After a few shelfies on their shellphones, the turtles said goodbye. One fellow raced over and introduced me to his wife.

'Hi, I'm Terry, the one who had the winning idea, and this is Michelle. We're so happy together. Of course, there are other more handsome turtles out there, I mean, I'm no oil painting; but my girl, you know she'd rather be with me.'

Would this be the last time I see these little guys? And if I returned, would they have turtle recall? Would I call out to a turtle and say, 'Hey, are you Michelle from Louth?' And would she say, 'Yes.'?

Or would she say, 'No, no, no, it ain't me, babe.'?

##### Epilogue

Wash and vacuum senior citizens. $15.95.

You know what they're like. The bastards never wash.

I tried hitching a ride from Louth to Bourke for three hours. It's nearly 4 p.m. and I got to get me back home before the morning light. The sun was hot, and the wind was hotter. I retreated to the town common and set up camp amongst the turtle doves (any more turtle jokes, you might tortue me), wandered over the bridge, had a shower in the public amenities, donated to the Royal Flying Doctor and went for a cold beer at Shindy's Inn. The next day, Ted Rice the mailman took me and all my gear into Bourke.

Then I drove home.

I drove through towns starting with the letter G: Gilgandra, Gosford, Gubbo, Gundagai, Goonabarabran, Gulargambone, and Gunnedah. Try saying those when you're jet-lagged. At Gunnedah, I stopped for breakfast. There are many cafes in our Gunny and the one I chose wasn't so much a greasy spoon as the entire cutlery drawer. The fried eggs were doing backstroke, the bread was dripping in butter, and the instant coffee was like drinking a thin liquid mud pie. I slid out the door and phoned my cardiologist. Sorry Gunnedah, I love you, truly I do. Especially when I read a quote at the local pub from one of your favourite sons: _Nothing like smelling silvertail blood through a broken nose._ If you have never played, watched or dreamed about rugby league, you may need some serious counselling after that.

Coming into Goondiwindi, the winds were so strong I untied the canoe and drifted up into the sky and floated to Grisbane. Pick the ute up next week.

# Last bit

"You may paddle all day long; but it is when you come back at nightfall, and look in the familiar room, that you find Love or Death awaiting you beside the stove; and the most beautiful adventures are not those we go to seek."

From _An Inland Voyage_ by Robert Louis Stevenson. Everyman's Library, 1947.

Does a dream become better for just staying a dream and going no further? Can the non-doing of a long-time plan, a hope that goes beyond the dreary give a strength that seems more powerful and become an understanding of your limitations? Or a giving in to the unattainable that merely remains a dangling carrot? Or do you just go and do it anyway? Can we choose our destiny, our true calling? I say, 'Yes possibly,' because if you are in sync with yourself and the universe, it's odds-on that it's your choice and when you do choose you will exhale, long and hard, like a boar watching a fisherman. And it will be an easy breathing out and one that never feels onerous afterwards. Which does help if you want to stay alive.

Ever since I was a little kid, I had a dream. And it was to follow my dad's travels to the Darling. Not literally, but just to see the high banks, the grey river and the murray cod that he spoke about. And I thought about not doing this to keep dad safe. But from what? My limitations of my idol? My own fears? To leave him there with his stories of his house painting mates and their adventures so he would remain my outback hero?

Forget that earlier paragraph about leaving a dream a dream, I just wanted the Darling River.

I have found something pretty special on the old river. And as Robert Louis Stevenson says, it's not always the adventures you go looking for. The Darling is where I wake up, it is where I am in control of my decisions (which include an acceptable amount of non-decisions, minor successes and even a couple of failures), it is where I smell my ancestors (and trust me, they stink; I have slept in grandpa's bed a few times), and even though my home is Brisbane (necessarily close to medical facilities and bottle-shops), the Darling is where I feel like I am part of the earth.

The Darling trips I've done have been all extraordinary. Dad was right in all he said. His descriptions of the old river, the colours, the emotions that came, everything, they were all there. And of course, everyone knows the closer you are to nature, the longer you live. I read it somewhere and everything you read must be true, just like in that bible. Never mind the physical nature (!) and the benefits of exercise, when you are peaceful in the bush the risk of diabetes and heart disease are lower, and any stress hormones simply vanish. And then you are ready to move into the next level, storey number five.

In my three books on the Darling adventures, there have been a few times, okay maybe quite a few, where not only have I spoken to various species of living creatures, inanimate objects and even a few imaginary friends, but they have responded. Some of them weren't particularly nice, either, I can tell you. People have said to me, 'Tony, now listen, not saying that you're weird or anything but...' (straight away I know it's their problem not mine) '... even though you may talk to trees, imaginary friends and turtles, and I'm good with all that,' (thank goodness, I was worried about them for a bit), 'but what do you mean, they talk back? How can trees, ghosts and turtles speak English?'

'You think I'm nuts or something? Of course they don't speak English.'

About here, if I sense an evil grin forming or a suppressed snigger, I either tell lies or avoid any further discussion, because I don't like being put down. But there is another response, one which can lead to a sharing of some pretty special stuff, an understanding that goes beyond mere acknowledgement of polite social discourse. A response that not so much vindicates the insular-whatever, but allows deep breaths, deep sleeps and even deeper friendships.

Recently, at a shopping centre, which I love to frequent because of its bright lights, sweet perfumes and truthful advertising, one of these deep sharings happened.

A teacher colleague had been bushwalking in New Zealand. Now the Land of the Long White Cloud is a beautiful country and its inhabitants, while having limited rugby league, rugby union and netball knowledge or ability, and no idea how to correctly pronounce vowels, seem like nice people. He went with a small group and after a bit they had to come home so he carried on alone. He said, 'You've been alone in the bush, right?'

I said, 'Indeed, I have done that a couple of times.' After he asked thet question, he looked around, like I was about to be told the All Black's game plan, or where the packets of white powder were hidden. He said, 'When I was alone, all fit and strong, I felt something. I felt a presence. It was like a spirit, a companion or a whatever. And I spoke to the trees.' He paused a bit, looked around again, in case Richie McCaw was about to smash him, or those undercover agents over there mopping the floor were listening, then he said, 'And the trees talked back.' He sweated a little, fidgeted with his collar, and continued, 'What do you think of that?'

I said, 'Happens to me all the time.'

The relief on his face was incredible. 'Really? No, really?' I nodded, and he went on, 'I was slow, my body was warm, I was grubby, and I truly felt like I fitted in to the whole universe. I was at peace with everything that had happened in my life before and now. And I could hear the forest accepting me.'

Seems I'm not the only crazy one. I have found not all trees can do this. Maybe they are tired and just want to veg out (see what I did there?) or maybe they don't like you, I don't know. But what I do know is when this incredible exchange takes place it's a sharing of peace, an understanding and respect without judgement, control or expectations. Trees are loyal friends. Just like dogs.

Once you are in that state, no, you will not hear English spoken from everything around you. But you will hear the natural world communicate with you. And I don't mean just the wind in the leaves, birdcalls or worms digging. I mean sounds that you can't hear with your ears. It's energy, like a soft electricity flowing and if you're ready, you will hear it.

Animals too, can sense vibrations and can communicate with each other without making a sound. ' _We know that elephants can actually sense vibration from over hundreds of kilometres. And they can detect who sent it and what it's about.'_ This is in an article by Ann Jones, of ABC online.

I'm guessing there's not many pachyderms left along the Darling. Be interesting if there were though. You wouldn't set up camp near one of their trails.

Sounds usually come in via our ears (this may be a revelation, not sure), and regardless of some media repression, limited truths or even a limited self-belief belonging to the listener, sounds can also enter via the skin because sound travels in invisible waves. The lower stomach in particular, which can issue warnings, anxiety, or excitement, also has a side that is rarely listened to; not as the receptor, but as one of our acceptors of innate sound. I may have made most of that up, but you know I'm on to something.

If and when you're in one of those moods, one of those frames of mind that say, _I am at peace with myself and the world_ , then the skin-sound thing happens. It's to do with your energy matching the incoming wavy vibration energy. Think medieval chant or deep pulsating stairways to heaven - done without noise. These waves have repetitions that rival Sufi dancers, and any method of mind-altering methods known to man, including but not exclusive of eight-year-olds reciting their times tables. These types of sounds go straight into the body. The ears don't stand a chance. They just sit there, like open taxi doors, wondering what's going on. You could be meditating, in love or in trance, either way, you will be lost to your immediate physical surroundings and will belong to the everafter. You won't realise that it is now Thursday, not last Saturday when you began to discover the universe. I did not make that last bit up. It's a frequency that needs to be shared, because you can also make sound waves for others to hear. If you're both quiet.

Over the past forty something years, the Darling has taught me plenty of new stuff. It has also given me a look into the mirror of my own life, even without a discussion with a black pig. The Darling is also my health mentor, my life's medicine.

'Here, take three of these with a small cup of black coffee.'

'Will there be side effects?'

'Certainly. You will get hope, freedom and possibly more humility.'

What if September 2017 was to be my last Darling trip? _'Is this the last little fire, the last sleeping bag roll, the last tent fold...?_ Doesn't that little baby have a new meaning. Would I have done anything differently? No, not a thing, because it doesn't matter if it was my last trip on the Darling. Because even though I was spaced-out, it was my reality, not a reflection of or a made-up reality from someone else.

But, the last trip? Surely not. I will keep coming back, like Cleopatra to Anthony, like a moth to a flame, like vegemite to toast.

There are copious amounts of travel books that implore you to visit here or over there before you die - but none of them have a clue. They will list grand cities, temples, isolated beaches, and even more isolateder rainforests. Ignore them. You must go to western New South Wales, you must stare into little campfires next to the Darling.

Even if you don't eat carp, go; even if you can't reverse a trailer, go; even if you came to Australia in a boat, go.

Wherever you go; be a good person.

# Acknowledgements

I had a teacher named Mrs Turtle. She tortoise lots.

To my wife Evonne. You put up with a lot. Thank you my sweet.

To my editor Laurel Cohn. Thank you. Again.

To IndieMosh Publishers. Ally Mosher you are amazing. Thank you for all that you have done these past few years. Jenny Mosher - thank you for your patience and professionalism. I appreciate your hard work, humour and putting up with my questions.

To my Proof-readers, I owe you. Again. Les Godfrey, Judy Harris, Helen Goodchild, Janet Sale. With no time, you worked miracles. Name your price.

To the traditional owners. Thank you for letting me be a part of your rivers.

To Peter Harris. Another beautiful cover. Thank you.

PART 1-2013 Louth to Wilcannia

Voyageurs stuff. Thank you Dr. Richard Virr, Senior Curator, Rare Books and Special Collections, McGill University Library and Archives, Montreal, Quebec, for permission to use information on the Voyageurs, from _In Pursuit of Adventure, History of the Fur Trade and the North West Company_.

<http://digital.library.mcgill.ca>

More Voyageurs stuff. My appreciation to the Heritage Services of Hudson's Bay Company of Toronto, for permission to use information from the _Life of a Voyageur_.

www.hbcheritage.ca - click Classroom, Teacher Resources, Virtual Museum, then Life of a Voyageur.

The river distances mentioned in this book were originally done in miles and were given to me by Jack Rabbit Smith, the keeper of records at the old Wilcannia Custom's House in 1977. I have since sourced them from _The Register of Australian and New Zealand Shipping 1924-1925_ stored at the _Australian National Maritime Museum_. I may have indicated that I measured these distances via dubious methods.

Carp. The amount of carp sold at the Sydney Fish Markets was documented by Catherine Heuzenroeder in an online article on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation's website

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-12-06/pest-to-plate-our-growing-appetite-for-feral-carp/9227976>

Narrabri 2MaxFM 91.3 radio. Thank you for permission to use the Prince Charming quote, as well as the interview.

The Vietnam War and Australia's National Service in-formation came from _A nation at war: Australian politics, soc-iety and diplomacy during the Vietnam War 1965-1975: the official history of Australia's involvement in Southeast Asian conflicts 1948-1975_ copyright Australian War Memorial. Written by Sue Langford, this was fantastic in explaining National Service in Australia. Thank you, Kelda McManus, for permission.

PART 2-2014 Wilcannia to Pooncarie

The Variety Bash. Permission from Georgie Smith of Variety - the Children's Charity of Victoria. Thank you, Keri Torney, for the photos. There's some crazy cars there.

The migratory waders. Ann Jones's article _Flying for their Lives_ , on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) website (17/6/17), was extraordinary. Beautifully written to say the least, and professionally researched. Thank you for permission.

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-06-17/flying-for-your-life-ann-jones/7459288>

PART 4-2015 Bourke to Louth

Azolla-I borrowed information from _Red Water Fern (Azolla) Tronoh Dredge Harrietville_ , The Murray-Darling Freshwater Research Centre (2013) by Leanne Wheaton. Thank you, Rosie Busuttil, Senior Administration officer, The Murray-Darling Freshwater Research Centre, School of Life Sciences, La Trobe University, Wodonga.

PART 5-2016 Louth to Tilpa

Alice Bowers is the normal one. The rest of us have problems. This girl is a true adventurer, possibly coming under the heading of Slightly Crazy, but what a girl. Check out what she's done and weep.

<https://www.alicebowers.com>

The Tilpa boat ramp was constructed by suitable civil works contractors. Which is a relief. You don't want arguments building a long boat ramp. The Central Darling Shire initial costing was around $80,000.

<http://www.centraldarling.nsw.gov.au/f.ashx/March-2015-Minutes.pdf>

'Monsieur, t'as pas de coquilles... va te faire enculer.' does not translate as 'Hey mister, there is a small chance you aint as tough as you think you are.' It really means, 'Mate, you have no balls ... fuck you.'

Festival of a Thousand Stories in Bourke. Permission from the committee thank you. Put this one on your To Do list.

<http://festival1000stories.com.au/>

While we're in Bourke, thank you to Graeme Gibson for the permission to use his story.

PART 6-2016 Hungerford to Wanaaring

The quote about Hungerford is from _Henry Lawson The Grey Dreamer_ by Denton Prout 1963 Rigby. Adelaide. Page 111

Van Gogh died in 1890 and Lawson did his Bourke to Hungerford trek in 1892/3. They would have been good mates. Vince could have illustrated Henry's short stories with vivid colours, thick paint and an equal amount of angst. I wonder is brilliance instability's first cousin? Should society support the arts as much as sports?

_To Hungerford with Henry_ by Andrew Hull. Thank you for permission Hully.

<http://hullyjoe.com/andrew-hull/projects/to-hungerford-with-henry/>

Cherie von Horchner has a great article on the benefits of dingoes.

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/rural/2018-02-25/bushfire-dingo-feral-animal-study-pest/9478270>

Mat Wolnicki and I met up in Brisbane. We had a couple of beers and talked about the Paroo River and life. A wonderful wonderful meeting. Thank you Mat. Let's meet again.

Kookaburras are not native to Tasmania. They were brought in to eat snakes. Which is kind of dumb because yes, they may eat snakes, but they are also nest robbers.

Copyright ABC radio Hobart. Article by Carol Rääbus. Thank you, Wendy Stahel, for permission.

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-01-25/kookaburras-and-other-invaders-no-laughing-matter-in-tasmania/9353196>

PART 7-2017 Menindee to Pooncarie

_An Inland Voyage, Travels with a Donkey, and the Silverado Squatters_ (1947) by Robert Louis Stevenson, Everyman's Library No, 766: London.

_Foxes take $28 million bite out of Australian agricultural sector, so farmers fight back._ Australian broadcasting Corporation (7/3/18) by Anthony Pancia

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-03-07/fox-numbers-take-bite-out-of-australian-agriculture-economy/9485428>

_Exhaustion and Fulfillment: The Ascetic in a Canoe_ by Pierre Trudeau, written in 1944, is from Che-Mun Outfit 102 in 2000.

<http://www.canoe.ca/che-mun/102trudeau.html>

PART 8-2017 Bourke to Louth

Thank you, ABC radio, for the interviews and the wonderful company. Dugald Saunders from Dubbo, Michael Cavanagh from Orange and Aimee Volkofsky of Broken Hill.

The research on echidnas' quills was in an article by Nick Grimm on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation's website (19/2/18)

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-02-19/echidnas-deployed-to-sniff-out-endangered-wildlife-trafficking/9461610>

Last Bit

On the Australian Broadcasting Corporation News in early February 2018, there was an article by Belinda Smith about the health benefits of being in nature.

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/science/2018-02-05/nature-park-forest-immune-system-inflammation-mental-health/9387714>

The elephants and the vibrations. This is Ann Jones, on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation News. It's a fascinating article that has a quote from a Dr Robert Raven, an arachnologist, who states, 'Vibration is a medium by which a lot of communication occurs in the animal kingdom.'

<http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-02-16/spiders-attracted-to-4wd-vibrations/945073216/2/18>

# Also by Tony Pritchard

_Drifting down the Darling_

_Paddling down the Darling_

Available in print and ebook from your favourite online retailers.

# Copyright statement

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

**<https://indiemosh.com.au/>**

Copyright © Tony Pritchard 2018

The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia: **<http://catalogue.nla.gov.au/>**

**Title:**  
Canoeing down the Darling

**Author:**  
Pritchard, Tony (1952-)

**ISBNs:**  
978-1-925814-94-1 (paperback)  
978-1-925814-85-9 (ebook - epub)  
978-1-925814-86-6 (ebook - mobi)

**Subjects:**  
Personal memoir; Travel - Australia and Oceania; Nature - animals/birds

The author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at the time of publication. However, the author and publisher accept no liability for any loss, damage or disruption incurred by the reader or any other person arising from any action taken or not taken based on the content of this book. The author recommends seeking third party advice and considering all options prior to making any decision or taking action in regard to the content of this book.

Cover design and layout by Peter Harris

All images (c) Tony Pritchard unless otherwise specified

Man in Canoe images licensed from AdobeStock
