Down By The River - Chapter 20 - Condobolin Day 4

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Chapter 20 – Condobolin Day 4

It was a beautiful Friday morning when I woke up early to go fishing with my Uncle Brolga. I had been looking forward to this day for weeks, as my uncle was known to be an avid fisherman and always had some incredible stories to tell. We planned to set up near the showground bridge, which was a popular fishing spot in our town.

Uncle Brolga is late, he had slept in a little. I wasn’t too concerned as I knew he was always up for an adventure. We quickly packed up our fishing gear and headed out to the river. I was buzzing like kids on Christmas morning, half expecting we’d be heading down some dusty back road, dodging kangaroos and crossing cattle grids until we reached some fabled spot only known to the family, “up past the old boundary fence, turn left where the windmill used to be, then follow the sound of the cockatoos.” That sort of magic. But instead, after about five minutes of rattling through town in Brolga’s old Subaru, with its glove box full of faded servos receipts and Murray cod lures, we found ourselves pulling into the Condobolin Showground.

“Here?” I asked, eyebrows raised and hopeful face slipping just a little. I’d been dreaming of isolation, of mist rising off hidden water and the scent of gum trees thick in the morning air. Instead, we were behind the rodeo arena, within spitting distance of the main bridge, parked next to a busted-up picnic table and a bin that had clearly been losing its long-term battle with the local ibis population.

But Brolga, bless him, just gave a knowing grin as he threw the truck into park.

“Mate,” he said, pulling his rod from the tray like a wizard drawing his staff, “this is the spot. Don’t let the postcode fool you.”

I followed him down a slight embankment, which was more a gentle slope of baked grass and the odd discarded ice cream wrapper than the treacherous riverbank of myth, and there it was. The Lachlan, wide and quiet this time of morning, its surface broken only by the occasional lazy swirl from a fish feeding near the reeds. The bridge loomed above us, its shadow making patchy ripples across the water. There were already a couple of locals nearby, one in a folding chair nursing a thermos, another casting rhythmically with an old-school hand reel, but it didn’t feel crowded. It felt like it knew how to welcome strangers.

Brolga had his line in the water within moments, not even bothering with a test cast. “Deep channel just off that log,” he said, pointing with his chin. “She bends hard there. Big yellows love it.”

I sat down on the riverbank, not far from where a faint ring of soot suggested someone else had lit a fire here not long ago. There was a peace in it, the sort that sneaks up on you when expectations are stripped away. I’d come looking for a hidden gem in the bush, but found instead a lesson in plain beauty. You don’t need remoteness to find solitude. Sometimes all it takes is a river, a rod, and an uncle who knows what matters.

I am, still a little sceptical, started fiddling with my gear, but even he couldn’t deny the appeal. I remember as a youngster fishing here and catching redfin The sun was starting to rise properly now, edging past the bridge and warming the exposed patches of sand along the bank. A kookaburra laughed from somewhere behind us. You could smell eucalyptus and wet mud.

Brolga leaned back, hands behind his head, rod wedged between his knees. “You mob get all excited about secret spots,” he chuckled. “But you know what the secret is? It’s not about the fish. It’s about turning up.”

And right then, I believed him.

The line jerked once, not mine, but Brolga’s, of course. He sat forward, adjusting ever so slightly, and then let it run a little. His grin widened. “Oh yeah,” he said softly, more to himself than us. “That’s her.”

It wasn’t a monster, not one for photos or long-winded pub stories. But it was enough, albeit a carp. Enough to remind us we didn’t need to chase the horizon. Enough to tell us that sometimes, the best kind of adventure is the one that shows up exactly where you are.

The day passed like that lines in the water, stories told between bites, laughter from the footy field across the way drifting in every now and then. A couple of curious kids came by on bikes, asked what we’d caught. One of them knew Brolga by name. Of course he did.

And as the shadows shortened and the sun headed towards its apex over the silos, we packed up slowly, reluctant to leave. 

It was a bit slow at first, with not many bites but I managed a nine pound carp, three coake cans long in fact, a bloody monster. However in contrast, the conversation we had was brilliant. We talked about everything from family to politics, and even the reason why we were really there. We both needed a break from our busy lives and just wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of nature.

I want to write a book of that conversation, in time. Uncle Brolga was quite a legend on the cricket field, in his time considered the fastest bowler west of the divide. Big plaudits in the time of Lillee and especially Thompson. There was the time he actually faced Thommo, hitting him for six over point first ball, and as he took the plaudits of the crowd, the great bowler siddled up to him asking did he enjoy his leg stump. Next ball, not that he saw it, removed it, and that was that. A fleeting moment in time, etched indellably in his mond

He enjoyed the company of the Bankstown Cricket Club on “country tour”, but particularly Thommo who evidently bought beers all night after the game.

As we cast our lines, my uncle mentioned that he had originally planned to go pigging with my cousin Mitch, but his mate with the dog had gotten sick and had to cancel the trip. I could sense a bit of disappointment in my uncle’s voice, but he quickly brushed it off and said that he was happy to be fishing with me instead.

The sound of the river flowing by and the occasional splash of a fish kept us company. The sun was shining bright, and the air was filled with a light breeze, making it a perfect day for fishing. Even though we didn’t catch many fish, it was a memorable morning that I will always cherish.

As we packed up our gear and headed back home, I couldn’t help but think about the lessons I learned from my uncle. Fishing with him reminded me of the importance of taking time out of our busy lives to just relax and enjoy the little things in life. We often get so caught up in our work and personal lives that we forget to enjoy the simple things in life.

My uncle’s disappointment about his cancelled pigging trip also taught me that life is unpredictable and sometimes things don’t go as planned. However, it’s important to find joy in the present moment and not let disappointment overshadow the positive moments in our lives.

As we pulled up to my uncle’s house, I thanked him for the wonderful morning we had shared. He smiled and said that it was a pleasure spending time with me, and that he was grateful for our fishing trip. It was a simple gesture, but it meant a lot to me.

The fishing with my Uncle Brolga, much like the time on the river in the houseboat, was a reminder of the importance of taking time to slow down and appreciate the simple things in life. It also taught me to find joy in the present moment, even when things don’t go as planned. I will always remember this day as a special memory that I shared with my uncle.