Down By The River - Chapter 10 - Mildura & the Houseboat Day 6

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Chapter 10 – Mildura & the Houseboat Day 6

As I sat on the riverbank, euthanising more and more carp from both the shrimp net (another 50+ had found their way into the net) and the early morning lines, my thoughts drifted back to my youth. I remembered the days when I would spend all day fishing, chasing the elusive meal in an environment so apart from the joys presently being encountered.

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But today was different. Instead of catching the usual carp, I was seemingly reeling in bream after bream. Six of them by the day’s end. It was a pleasant surprise, as although expectations are always high, to catch such a “variety” of fish on this trip was never the “plan”. The bream were not large, but they were a beautiful shade of silver and fought fiercely when hooked.

As I sat there, enjoying the peaceful surroundings and the gentle sound of the water flowing past, I could not help but reminisce about the days of my youth. I remembered how to survive the hardened life presented by my parents, particularly my father. I would “head bush”, into the farmland and undeveloped scrub in search of vermin such as rabbits and foxes, not to mention kangaroos which although protected still were a menace to the viability of the farmer to avoid his wrath and the pain it often brought with it, as a means of escape. 

On my own yes – alone never. Always riding a horse, perhaps accompanied by dogs or packing a high powered rifle lost in my thoughts tracking my quarry.

As I continued to fish, I could hear my father’s voice in my head, goading me to do things his way and on his time constraints, often using the whip or other abuse to ram home his point. For him it was always about getting it done and moving onto the next chore. There was time for relaxing and that was not now as far as my parents were concerned, nor was it ever at home or so it seemed.

And he was right as far as he was concerned. 

Life on the farm extending from his father before him was an existence eeked out of nothing. My father’s side of the family were the early settlers where I grew up. When Hume and Hovell first trail blazed the road from Sydney to Melbourne after Blaxland Wentworth and Lawson showed them the way over the Blue Mountains the Banks family liked what they saw at Blakney Creek and started to farm Wheel Grace (a family name) which then also become Mount Buffalo, the place where I grew up to the west of the ancestral squat. There are pictures of early dwellings as well as remnants of old houses on our farm that belie the toughness of the times.

In a paddock dad termed “the Old Place” there was a structure made of mud brick and rustic wooden framework that was only ever used in my lifetime as a repository, undercover for baled hay. It sat atop a ridge riddled with quartz, the sewage of gold mining we were informed as children. Its white speckled pollution contrasting the either green or brown of the grasses for the sheep and cattle and the quince treed orchard. Whilst most of the property except for this small area seemed to be strewn with massive blue granite boulders, this ridge of quartz perhaps signalled an event that did not change the course of history.

When quizzed about this and other mine holes on the property he would bemoan the underlying great artesian basin and the destroyer of any dreams of pulling wealth from the first below the fertile soil.

Whilst there were times when we topped the wool sales in Goulburn there were also times of adversity like drought. Life on the farm is not the vacation city dwellers seem to think. On top of that there is the intense isolation. The nearest settlement to us was seven miles away, Rye Park, the place of my primary schooling. The nearest “real” town was twenty miles away from Mt Buffalo station, either Boorowa (where I went to secondary school) or Yass.

Farming was not only a life but a vocation for my parents. 

We had our “annuals”, a time when we left the house and headed to Batehaven and the Clydeview Caravan Park. This was always part of the May school holidays break. In our early days we never got to enjoy the entire length of the holidays as dad always had to return to the farm to attend the monthly Shire Council Meeting. Twenty five years he was a councillor on Boorowa Shire Council. His voice came from the very edge of the Council area as our property bordered the neighbouring Council. While on Council the one thing that seemed to always be the trend was the road to our place was always well maintained, even if it was not sealed. Not only was the main road covered but the mile and a half from it to our house often saw Council graders for the price of a carton of beer.

The “annuals” meant the only time to fish although in later years dad did stock the many dams on the property with trout, of which none were ever caught. The joy of fishing was not just in the catch during those days. Again not a recreation but a job to dad, it was a time to stock up the larder (or in this case part of the 18 cubic feet freezer) for the ensuing year. My father, his brother and another parent would rent a boat and fish as much as possible whilst we were there, fill the freezer of the adjacent service station and we would head back, him laden with our share of the delights of the deep.

Dad very rarely allowed us to fish with him. The excuse being until we could prove we could swim a mile we could not be “safe” in the boat. Each swimming lesson session conducted by the school we had a “see how far you have come swim” on the last day and the year I proved I could do it, was the last time we went to Batehaven.

As I reeled in another bream, I realised how much I missed those days of my youth. I missed the smell of the water and the camaraderie of the others at the Park who discovered fishing on our own as our fathers went their own way, having theri break from their tough lives. The big end of the day abc then was the congregation of people around the cleaning tables seeing what the ocean had handed up. We rarely ate anything caught while on holidays, it was a stocking time and the work had to be done.

But as much as I missed those days, I knew that I was making new memories that were just as special. I was building my own traditions and creating my own moments to cherish.

As the sun began to set, I packed up my gear and set the mozzie zapper to on, starting its symphony of death and destruction. I had caught more bream today than I had ever expected on the entire trip, and I knew that in days gone by I may have even been cooking them for dinner that night.

But dinner for us tonight was something completely different. Our ship mates are trying to be vegetarian but are also respectful of our enjoyment choices. Chicken thighs on the barbeque coupled with a vegetarian curry allows both families to enjoy the repast.

The wine with dinner eases any struggles of the day and is a prelude to more Rummikubs before bed. By all suggestions, everyone has had a good day not plagued by the storm from yesterday which played havoc with internet connection and much work was completed.

Tomorrow we are at it again