Down By The River - Chapter 5 - Condobolin to Mildura

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Chapter 5 – Condobolin to Mildura

When we first looked at this trip and talking about it, we struggled with the name for its blogs.

 Firstly the dirge that is The River by Bruce Springsteen came to mind with its haunting lines about life without hope and although it is a true favourite of my wife, as are most things created by “the Boss” we are, on “holiday” and the depressing thoughts of life without that hope didn’t seem the most appropriate. 

Then the 1972 Albert Hammond classic (yes sorry I am showing my age here) with its poke at environmental challenges surrounding pollution of our waterways seemed much more appropriate. Much less depressing with its lyrics about swimming in what was a printine river only to fall foul of its pollution, seemed much more appropriate.

We know what to expect of the river at Midura, one of the great food producing pockets to Australia. There will be very few tanks to capture the rain as it falls. Everyone will extract water from the river, spread it across the land where it will leach down and eventually back to the river. There will be droves of citrus trees (although not as many as there may have been in the past), wineries and other agricultural pursuits not only greeing the vista but raping the land in attmepts to feed the virus that is man.

So in the early morning light we set off. The GPS suggests its a 12 hour drive but I am yet to get the settings right and with the caravan attached it might have been close, but today we are simply cruising, and to maintain the speed limit (nd a little above) means we will cut the time to Mildura and the houseboat significantly.

First town, Lake Cargelligo with its man made water impoundment. We holidayed here many years ago with friends. Actually, like Albert Hammond suggests, “pitched our tent on a patch of ground” but in this case down by the lake. It was an Easter and it did nothing but rain. We bailed out early in fact and spent the last half of the trip with my now departed parents hanging out tents to dry lest they go mouldy.

During our time there the boys, not yet teenagers learned to water ski, albeit between rain intervals and fished from just outside the tent in a lake where catching anything other than small throw backs was difficult. One morning we took them to the Lachlan River which feeds the lake and fished in a little more earnest. Even then Carp were a pest dominating the waterway requiring disposal rather than return on capture. 

Here on the river it was quite a climb down to the water edge and with each success with the rod, the pest needed to be tracked up the bank and in this case skewered on a star picket by the gills (after euthenasia). By the time we left the fence post was significantly covered with the fish carcasses. The best memory though is of my youngest son having fought with a monster Carp and landed it, proudly scampering up the bank with it, tail up, getting smacked in the face by its tail in the process. That lad was very proud to add the errant fish to the growing list of conquests on the post and complained bitterly at the attack on his face by my wife (his step mother) removing the traces of the fish from his skin let alone the clothes he was wearing.

Although we are in the central west, in line with the geographic centre of the state that is Condobolin where the land is generally a flat vista of cropping in all directions, the drive in, through and just beyond Rankin Springs takes you through a most picturesque valley, surrounded by gum laden hills before you are deposited onto the Hay Plains.

The contrast between the carved farming valleys of the Rankin Springs area and that of the starkness of the plains of the western Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area are breathtaking and almost seemingly immediate. The Hay Plains with its less than Nullarbor vegetation is almost an insult to the eyes after wending through the forest surrounds.

This “insult” is to greatly continue as Hay (and we are far from that venue} is only half way. The monotony, the cruise control set and the only thing to do is to bop along to the music of the IPod. There are times when I try to guess the number of tracks that might play over the course of a trip while we are on tour. Today my mind doesn’t like the answer and in any event, to keep the trip upbeat with the monotony of the distance to cover, I am skipping anything less than positively motivating.

My IPod has Lawson and Patterson poems and stories as told by Jack Thompson as well as many Strauss waltzes, long playing tracks which can, depending on the number in the random cycle, cloud my judgement calculating how many might be heard. But they do while away the time.

Firstly Hay then Balranald and time for a stop and refuel. The crisis on the other side of the world quickly affects us here, and how quickly the fuel companies hand it on. $2.30 per litre is quite a shock after filling in Condobolin, a town not on a main thoroughfare for $1.94. We found this a lot on the last lap. The main thoroughfare service stations were always significantly higher priced than the backstreet operators even though in a pure economic sense with their economies of scale and factors like reduced wages through potential reduction in seniority of staff (read here not needing to pay the owners what they are really worth based on skill level) they should be able to compete.

Add to that the ability to increase prices at a whim even though they have the same fuel in reserve as they did yesterday, not having been refilled with higher priced stock and one wonders why there is cynicism about price gouging. The “flow on” effect of higher crude prices ALWAYS seems to flow to the bowser much quicker than the potential actual crude flow through from well to processing plant and to the service station, yet when crude prices fall it seems to take an inordinate amount of time to level out. 

No conspiracy theory here, just good old capitalism at work.

Fuel for the Cruiser and fuel for the occupants and we are back on the road with the cruise control set and barrelling only towards our destination. Now we are on the main thoroughfare to Adelaide the truck numbers have increased. Most help you around given with their bulk, its hard to see far enough ahead to make the manoeuvre. I always thank them when I get the flash to go, either using the universal left and right hand trafficator signal or grabbing the UHF (my preferred option) and saying thanks mate. 

Now and again you get a return comment to which I add “stay safe”. Not sure if they appreciate the gesture but I certainly appreciate the help, especially when we have the van attached and it works both ways. If I see a road train approaching I will work to get him past as efficiently as possible which at times can mean co-ordinating a slowdown to speed up the overtaking. 

I take the position they are working, I am not, and I have not met a truckie yet who is not appreciative of a slower driver making way for them. 

Food for thought for those drivers who fail to look in the rear view mirror and see a line of vehicles behind. Frustration on the road makes even the best drivers do silly things. Taking the frustration away does save lives.

On and on we drive. The last major town before Mildura is Euston. Only 80 kilometres to go. I am thankful for the cruise control as I suspect being so close the foot on the accelerator would have leadened at this point. This is even more impacted by the number of highway patrol vehicles we are seeing.

Finally the sign to Malibu Marina, but we are not stopping just yet. Our companions are lunching in Mildura and we will meet them there before unloading. I am not particularly hungry but Robyn attacks a Mexican Eggs offering at the Brass Monkey while I pick her chips from the side.

Maurice and Lyn along with their travelling companion Stephen (to be with us for the first few days) are all but finished lunch by the time we arrive. The greeting done, our lunch ordered, they head off to unpack and for the Houseboat briefing. The past year has seen two pairs of shorts, made from bamboo basically disintegrate on me and I need to seek replacements.

Trusty Mrs Google is consulted and a number of targeted establishments reconnoitred and I am off, leaving Robyn revelling in her eggs and cup of tea. 

Truth in advertising – now there is a misnomer of ever there was one.

We Googled “Bamboo Clothing Midura” and got several potential shops, all with rave reviews about service and product. Looks like my search will be quick and painless – WRONG. 

The first shop has no bamboo clothing lines at all and the staff wondered why I was there at all. The second on the list did have bamboo socks for sale and they suggested if there was anything bamboo to be found in Mildura, the third establishment on the list would have it as they were the “bee knees” of clothing shops in Mildura. Thankfully all three of these shops were relatively close together and the walks through the streets very pleasant, although Mrs Google took me down a blind alley as the “entrance” to shop #1.

The customer service at all three shops was exemplary, even though they may not have had what I was after they were more than happy to seek to recommend a close by alternative which was great to see, with only one problem – NONE OF THEM ACTUALLY HAD BAMBOO CLOTHING, other than the socks at shop #2.

Yes – everything you read on the internet is true and factual – NOT, and no one seems to care.

Enough said about that. My wanderings around the Mildura shopping precinct done, its back to the boat to unload. The Marina provides a trolley to assist borders with their luggage and we use it – several times. 

The briefing and hand over is almost done as we arrive and I immediately engage in conversations with the staff member, who we have met on prior trips, about the state of the fish stocks in the river. His answer – Carp, Carp and more Carp. Even though they have taken measure to restock the river, it appears to be a losing battle. He does chortle that there is presently a competition in the area for the largest Carp caught, a damning indictment on the state of the river in his opinion.

Unlike the last time we were here where we stayed on the morning for the first night (and caught a 2.5 kilogram Golden Perch) we are going to make tracks up the river to one of the river banks, which given daylight saving is till in place, there is ample time to do. We have a luncheon date at Trentham Estates tomorrow and cutting down the travelling time by taking a significant hunk out of the distance makes sense. Boat parking is a premium there at the best of times and we would like to get a spot early.

Our new travelling companion Stephen takes to making dinner. Any chances of losing weight in the earlier part of the holiday are dashed and dashed in a manner we might like to become accustomed. Add to this the date at Trentham tomorrow and the girth uncomfortably thickens in anticipation.

Finally the fishing gear is unpacked and baited hooks cast. Success is almost immediate. The dreaded Carp provide the entertainment. But suddenly one line becomes far more active than would be expected of another Carp and the fight too is vastly different. A freshwater catfish, a delicacy from our youth, protected now on this restocking of the river provides much excitement. And its not a tiddler either, in days gone by you would have been more than happy to skin the fish and plonk it on the BBQ without remonstrations as to the size of the fish.

But unlike the Carp, this fish is returning to the river. Free to grow and promulgate.

The light is fading and the insects rising. Stephen breaks out a bug zapper and proceeds to set it up on the back table where it crackles like an open campfire as the bugs, attracted to the light, meet their end. Inside the houseboat three unlikely victims are being introduced to Rummikub. This is a game based around Gin Rummy which our family loves. We have our travelling companions in stitches at these in which we can finish games with the tiles they have in their hands.

The merriment goes on well into the night to the sound of the crackling of the bugs against the zapper outside.