Chapter 2

The paddleboat ride along the Darling was interesting, but noisy. I wondered whether folks brought unruly children in the hope that they’d fall in, but this was too far upstream to think they’d be eaten by a giant cod, like Ken in “Love Serenade.” But that took place far downstream, along the Murray. And it was just an idle fantasy. (The Murray Cod, which can grow to about two metres, is not really a cod in a Northern Hemisphere sense, but a giant freshwater perch.) But it was interesting to observe the growth along the banks, where the line of successive floods and droughts produced distinct lines. Much like the rings on tree trunks.

I skipped lunch, intending to have a decent dinner. But I drove back and sat in Lawson Park, reading Madman’s Bend, which takes place along the Darling, between Louth and Tilpa. I’d be driving there tomorrow. Looking at the maps, I could drive (pretty much) along the Darling from Bourke to Louth and have lunch and a beer at Shindy’s Inn. If I had two beers, I’d wait an hour prior to proceeding to Tilpa, where I hoped to stay at the Tilpa Hotel on the north/west side of the Darling. Before dinner, however, I tried out the sat-phone, calling Patrick.

I got him, narrated some of my travels over the past three or four days and told him my immediate plan. “Sounds fine,” he responded. “Meet any sheilas?”

I laughed. Outside of waitresses, only a woman in her forties at the motel.”

“Well, be wary.”

I told him of the brats on the paddleboat and how they served as a deterrent.

“Where after Tilpa?”

“I’m not sure. I might follow the Darling down to Wentworth and read Sturt as I go. On the other hand, I might go to Wilcannia, north to White Cliffs and then west into the desert. I might go through Broken Hill and overland to Lake Frome. Or even west to Oodnadatta and north to Finke, just inside the Territory.”

“Lots of choices. How’s the Rover?”

“Perfect, so far. I’ll fill up on diesel and fill both cans tomorrow morning and get a case of bottled water. Unless I do go through Broken Hill, I won’t be in any largish places.”

“Right. Broken Hill is under 20 thousand. But I’d bet Wilcannia hasn’t near a thou.”

“I’d bet on under 700!”

We both laughed.

“I’ll tell the mulga wire that you’re on walkabout. If you meet a group in western NSW or in South Australia, they’ll know you’re a good person.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell anyone that you’re the Carpet Python’s father.”

“Yes. By the way, have you heard from Sarah?”

“No. But you haven’t been away for a week.”

“True. Love to Rachel.”

I returned to The Wine Glass and then strolled back to the motel. The notion of Patrick using the mulga wire to look out for me was interesting. I hadn’t even asked about the house. That must mean I’m getting to some sort of normal state. Or at least equipoise.

Well before ten I was on my way, via Louth Road, to Shindy’s Inn.

Bourke sits on the rim of one of the world’s major natural features – the Great Artesian Basin. It comprises 1.7 million square kilometres of underground water that is about two million years old. The total volume of this vast resource is thought to be about 8,700 million mega litres; it currently discharges 570,000 mega litres each year.

Louth is 100 kilometres downstream of Bourke, and was described by Henry Lawson as place that loved “a drink, a party and a punt.”

There were no races at this time of year, but Shindy’s was known for its cold beer and its friendly locals. It was relatively cool and damp under the foliage as I drove. Two utes going towards Bourke were all the traffic I encountered. It was before noon when I reached Shindy’s. I parked and went in to the bar.

“G’day,” said the barman as I walked in. I was looked over by the two grizzled regulars.

“Dayee. I’m going to want lunch in a bit. But I was wondering whether I could go down the bank to the river.”

“Ain’t holdin’ you back. There’s lotsa yabbies, if you’re lookin’.”

“No. Not my thing.”

“Got a fishin’ permit?”

“No. Nor tackle. Just looking around. Might want an ant or two.”

“We lot plenny o’them,” said a regular. “Big uns that bite.”

“Black?”

“Dam’ right they are. Big as the end o’ yer thumb.”

“Bulldog ants,” I said. “There are nearly a hundred kinds, all over Australia. I saw one in the Alice some years ago. The sting can be dangerous, but it’s certainly painful.”

“If yer not back fer lunch, we’ll warn folks downstream,” said the other regular.

“Kind of you. Let’s hope it’s not necessary.” I gave a brick [$20 note] to the barman. “Beer for my mates, please.”

There was a break in the brush and a path down the bank. I walked a few paces towards the water, but it didn’t look like a promising site. The dark trees seemed to overhang the trail and the river’s littoral. There was a movement in the brush. It was a fair-sized Morelia spilota metcalfei, a Murray-Darling carpet python.