The Unfortunate Trout

I fished for the first time in about 30 years the other day, by the banks of the Goulburn River, near Eildon. I felt completely relaxed. I did not expect to catch anything. Inexplicably, however, I somehow landed a good-sized rainbow trout. I didn’t realise this would happen. This is the sorrowful story of the fish I landed.

I skim the surface of the Goulburn River. I am closest to the northern end, a short distance from the small town of Eildon. This has been my home from the time when I was spawned, some eight months ago. I like the way that the currents play with my body, teasing it, encouraging it to go left, then right, then left again, depending, it seems, on the whim of the winds.

I see my body in the morning reflection upon the water. I am silky and colourful. My scales shine brightly. Sometimes there is a silver sheen like a rainbow when I catch the reflection off the sun. I am of the trout family. We are one of the more beautiful fish in the Goulburn. And one of the most rare.

Sometimes I see myself heading straight towards other, less noble fish, and I do my best to steer my silky body away from them, for fear of contamination. These are ugly, more common fish like Murray cod, redfin, carp. In case you haven’t guessed, I am a rainbow trout, no less.

The rainbow trouts of this world, like me, tend to stick together. We come in all kinds of shapes and sizes, all of us with the distinctive body sheen and rainbow gills and elegant, slender shape. We are a kind of fish that know its family. I am one of many and I see my fish family every day, gliding the currents as I do, looking for food, tearing along the river’s surface, watching the particles of sand rise as leeches, insects and worms naively explore the seabed. Our mouths rise in anticipation and with our little sharp teeth, we rip the heads off the bigger prey, and swallow in one gulp the smaller ones.

Today the sky is cloudy above, but there is no hint of rain. I have just spent some time nestled beside a log with my younger friends and family. We have been joyously flinging ourselves into the air. We get a glimpse of another world when we do this. Air rushes into our gills momentarily and we feel a curious mixture of pleasure and pain. It is as if we want to be land animals for a second or two, before we plunge again into the icy waters that keep us alive.

 I can hear chatter from the nearby bank. Sometimes humans come to explore the creek too, and even wade into the water. This puzzles me because I know how handicapped they are. They are unable to properly swim. Their heaving, clumsy bodies stir up the sand and create a cacophony of noise where only the bravest fish stick around.

I am not particularly hungry this late afternoon. My day has drifted blissfully by. I have eaten when I can be bothered. I have seen plenty of mayflies and midges and consumed any number of them. I am not looking for anything in particular, just planning to head downstream to Thornton and to float across some wild, fun rapids under the bridge. Then I see it. The laziest worm I have ever seen. Thick, and juicy, and virtually impossible to ignore. Its cocky long body is resting on the river floor and it won’t let anything disturb it. It even looks like it might be dead. There is a slender piece of hooked metal next to it, which does not look so appetizing. But the worm? Delicious.

I snap my elegant jaws into the slippery worm and receive the shock of my short life. The curved metal piece hammers into my mouth and I feel it crush painfully across the inside of my mouth near the pharynx. Somehow it is hooked into me. I shake my head in a panic and the pain becomes sharper. I feel as though I am more hooked than ever. I am full of regret for what I have done, but there is little time for regrets. Through an indefinable source I am being dragged across the river by my mouth. My eyes are dazzled by bright light. I am being lifted out of the warm cocoon of the water.

There are humans, people on the bank, and I am inexplicably being hurled towards them. Their faces are shining. Three men. I glide in a dangerous arc towards their feet and smack flat onto a rocky bank. One of the men has grabbed my once proud body in his hands and he is trying to wrench the sharp hook from my gullet. The pain is roaring through me. I want this hook out too, but instead of an unclasping, this awful wrenching continues. My life flashes before me. Blood, my blood, is dripping onto the rocks and I am losing focus, and consciousness. Just when I feel free of the hook at last, and blink to regain my senses, heaving my asphyxiating body across rock, screaming in pain for water- the man lowers a curved blade towards my head, and begins his cutting motion…

Those wide wide open roads: Forbes, NSW September 2015

FORBES, MID-NSW, SEPTEMBER 21-24

It took us about nine hours to get there, and about nine hours to get back. But it was worth it. I love trips, no matter how short, and the different perspectives they can throw up. A new perspective, new horizons, a different interpretation.

J, S, M and I left Monday morning and stopped a few times. A town called Narranderra. Just before that Jerilderie, briefly. West Wyalong. Places along the Newell Highway. These were the towns of some note that I sort of found interesting in some way. I pretty soon found that it was the wide, wide streets that I thoroughly enjoyed.  It became a kind of theme of my holiday. The space and wideness of everything in the countryside. And by the time we reached Forbes, it felt like we really were in the countryside.

I have long neglected, in my mind, rural Victoria or NSW. Shamefully, I have been fixated on Europe, and in particular England, for too long. So it was so refreshing, these calm few days, to find fascination and enjoyment in new things much easier to grasp and experience. And I thought also of all those anonymous lives.

We arrived at our friends’ place around dusk. It had been quite a while since I had seen them. We knew small things about each other. They once lived near us in Melbourne, but their stay was short lived. Like many people, they went back to their families, their roots. I noticed straight away how delightful their children were. Three of theirs and two of ours, and our two matched two of theirs in age. They have what seems like a huge house. But I soon came to realise that everything is huge in the country, in Forbes. A walking tour of the garden is enough to wear you out. The rooms in the house all big and square. Two matching levels in size and a chunky double garage. It opened my eyes to the possibilities. In Melbourne, like most cities, by contrast, you have to sweat and toil for space. Here the wind flew through your hair and you strode open chested everywhere, instead of the usual squeezing single file.

We sat in the kitchen, and laughed, and talked of things to come.

Early the next morning we rose and outside I marvelled again at their wide, wide street. All exaggerated sizes. We drove down by the Lachlan River. I thought of the past. Forbes’ gold rush days. And parties and house boats of yesteryear all along the Lachlan. They all went off walking next to the rugby ground, and I went for a run. Down by the rail yard and then north of the town, up a hill and past the hospital. Running along the side of the wide streets and knowing nobody and feeling free in the cool breeze and the blank sunshine.

I arrived back at the rugby ground early, and tried to make friends with several pelicans who, though resting, all had one suspicious eye on me and retreated every time I passively advanced. I wondered about potential maltreatment and bored schoolboys. They weren’t to know I held them in high esteem.

After lunch at the ‘Mezzanine’, N gave us a glorious tour of the town. She knew everyone, which, although hardly surprising, was still interesting to see. ‘Hello’ to the woman in the dress shop, ‘hello’ to the women in the shoe shop, ‘hello’ to the myriad people shopping in the chemist. I quickly scribbled a p.c. to mother and father, and at last we reached Victoria Square. Victoria Square, Forbes. A thoroughly enchanting spot. There are many ‘squares’ around the world that I have yet to see, or know little of- Times Square, Hanover Square, Berkeley Square, Washington Square. I also think of enchanting little places in Europe where, in the middle of the city, you could sit and ponder for hours, and never get bored.

That beautiful fountain in the heart of Perugia. Traipsing along Charles Bridge, Prague. The Spanish Steps, Rome. Looking at the façade of Chartres Cathedral in France. Thinking of Vincent in the public gardens in Arles.

 I wanted to stay in Victoria Square for hours. The pretty façade of the little buildings along the west side of the square and the impressive court house. The charming fountain in the middle and the solemn war memorial monument. The grandiose Town Hall and the pretty Anglican church along the east side of the gardens. Here time stands still and offers the town so much beauty and character. It is always the ‘old part’ of places that are the most rich and intriguing.

More people for N to recognise on the streets. After a while we all have a casual swagger of feeling free and unintimidated by everything around us. M wants to run across the road. We play ‘games’ and take lots of photos in the shops, pretending to be mannequins.

Later, for a complete change of scenery, we venture out to our hosts’ relatives, and drive along partially unmade roads to mysterious places filled with unknown lives and rich tapestries of history. N and T apparently got married in this tiny innocuous Catholic Church in this spot surrounded by empty fields. The relatives live on acres and acres of dusty ground. There are fences to be unlatched and latched, several of them, and people and dogs and sheds at the end of everything. Here, the relatives have hired sheep shearers, who cut away fantastically well at the stiff, mute sheep who surrender their will to these expert workers. After only a few minutes each, the sheep are reduced drastically in size, bundled down a chute to their relative freedom, and their new, white glistening bodies resume their harmless eating.

We meander inside for some lovely hospitality at the farmhouse, several acres away. To own all this acreage makes my head spin a little. There is a lot I would like to know, but I feel a bit intimidated by everything I don’t know, and everything I didn’t know that I don’t know. There are family stories amidst shearing talk. One relative comes from Coff’s Harbour, but it’s a different world. I don’t really know anything about this place or where it is. Suddenly, living in the northern suburbs of Melbourne for so much of my life, feels somehow ridiculously foolish. It’s a bit like when T talks to me. I haven’t really had conversations like this for years. I suppose it is a bit like rural talk that’s unfamiliar, but it is life talk as well, or life experience, and I get this sense of overwhelming naivety.

That night we drink well and go to bed late. We gorge ourselves on homemade pizza. I am really enjoying the company of the children. They are all unique in some way, somehow refreshingly different. My girls, the city type, are equally entranced. It is great to see M so charmed by D, both of them around 7. And S equally fascinated by the rural S. My S copies a lot of her moves. The rural S is always stretching like ballerinas do.

We take two cars in the morning. I go with T in his car, with a couple of kids engrossed by a film in the back, and J goes with N and another couple of kids. Dubbo seems a long way away. We drive through canola field after canola field, all bright yellow like shorn sunflowers. There is also a gold quarry. Again, T is a fountain of knowledge. I have never had the conversation steered away from my comfort zone so much for a long time, but it is good.

Dubbo Zoo, the sign says, is the premier tourist attraction of Australia. I’m unsure but it’s an interesting place. The animals, mostly African in origin, seem a long way away. But it’s a respectful distance, and for that we should all be glad. At other zoos, you always get the feeling people want to reach out and grab and paw and smear over the animals. Here, we gaze on respectfully and curiously, something you would never do with paintings at an art gallery.

T is very relaxed. Even before we get out of there, after a long day of gazing into distances, he allows the children a final play on the flying fox near the exit. It makes me wonder if I am too impatient at times. The drive back is intriguing for me. I am starting to think about it all ending, like I did at Sarsfield nr Bairnsdale on another recent holiday. Thinking about it ending, regretfully. The wide open vistas are still somehow intriguing.  I am still not tired of the differences, to ordinary life.

For me, then, one of the most moving experiences of the whole holiday occurs. Thankfully, T is in no hurry to get home. We visit Forbes cemetery, and finally find Kate Kelly’s sad little grave. We have S and S running around looking for it too. It is a sad, little forlorn grave, a little headstone all in white. I don’t know much about her, but I can sense her hardship in my bones and seeing the gravestone fills me somehow with curiosity and tenderness for her. She felt it, apparently, quite difficult, being Ned and Dan’s sister. One day, possibly drunk, at the tender age of 36, she was found, drowned, in a Forbes field not far from T and N’s house. Or maybe she was trying to save an aboriginal child. We don’t really know.

This night, our last, we have pasta, and then follows another late night for the children. We are all in the mood for dancing and costumes and concerts. S and T do a nice little duet about fathers and daughters. D and I do a kind of shuffle to Salif Kieta’s ‘Yamore’, Forbes S does some ballet, Melbourne S and M do their respective dances, and it is difficult to get little I off the dance floor. She keeps saying ‘not finished!’, despite each song coming to its natural end.

We leave, fairly early, on the last day, September 24. Appreciative hugs all ‘round. I must be inspired, because all the way home I continue to find each town lovely in its own way, never getting tired of those magical wide, wide streets. I discover that Evonne Goolagong grew up near Narrandera. I see that people along those wide streets are friendly and community minded, like you would expect. There is a huge man-made strawberry out near Finley somewhere where we take a photo next to two nervous caged rams. Tocumwal is charming (I missed it, asleep, the first time). Before this, at Narrandera again, M and I sit on the ground in the cool sunshine on a corner waiting for J and S shopping, me asking her if she likes the wide streets and if she would like to live in the country.

Before too long- well, after nine hours, in fact, we have wended our way towards the city again, in the ever encroaching dusk. It’s all too familiar again- talk of AFL football on the radio, slimmer streets, hurly burly of cars and traffic signs, ambulance, drab buildings and lots of tiny houses, each with their hard earned little allotments that are so, so un-Forbes like in their composition. And it’s not just the wide streets I already miss. Somehow it is also the dusty fields and the wild terrain and the long bitumen roads that can take you to these unknown and anonymous lives who seem down here to live in the middle of nowhere. There are dead kangaroos on the side of the road. Little farms dotted here and there and I’m glad to say that we all ventured to one of these.

The Heather Blazing : The Pleasures of East Gippsland Part 4

 

 

SARSFIELD NR BAIRNSDALE

JULY 11

THIS morning we decided to explore our surroundings properly in the glorious, weak sun. We saw kangaroos hopping along the western border fence last evening. We all headed out that way, opening gates. I ‘lost’ the others, preferring to wander alone in the deepest parts of the fields before the borderline. Surrounded by vast plains and heather blazing on the ground all about me, and large stretches of comforting emptiness on all sides, I wanted time to stand still. I thought about next week, and traffic, and shops, and fences and brick walls, and people and work and getting up early, and public transport, and fears and challenges and responsibilities, and I wanted time to stand still. I actually wanted time to stop. Right at that instant I felt the most free for a long time, then thought of Andrew Marvell’s refrain, which I learnt in Year 12:

‘But at my back I always hear,

Time's-winged chariot hurrying near.’

We renewed acquaintances with all of the charming creatures of the land. Sheep bursting to give birth and tiny new born lambs; the friendly and itchy black and white boar who is destined to have an unusually long life; the little pigs drowsy and pressed close to each other for warmth and comfort in their pen; ‘Boomer’ the border collie scampering around everywhere chasing our sticks; the black cows and the bull who invited us to get reasonably close to them but still keep a respectful distance; and finally the ducks and geese who are free range but act, timidly, like the ducks and geese back home at Coburg Lake.

Running adjacent to the road here sure beats running adjacent to Sydney Road back home. The gravel path next to the highway provided some softness. I made it to Bruthen just as the rest of the family pulled up in their car. Good timing.

We called in at the lovely Bruthen pub as we did a few years ago and talked to the lady at the bar about local wineries. Nicholson River wines off Duncan Road were lovely- well, the reds at any rate which is what we tried.

I have started thinking about how much S has changed. More so than A. She is wearing jeans all of a sudden after espousing derision towards them all this time. She is wandering off on her own a lot, running ahead and wanting to be independent. She wants to try all these new things. And as we drive, she has been looking ahead reading the roadway signs as they emerge, which is what I think I once did.

Our trip is almost finished. It is, of course, inevitable, and in lots of ways regrettable.

 

 

 

More Animals and a National Park: The Pleasures of East Gippsland Part 3

SARSFIELD NR BAIRNSDALE

 

 

JULY 10

WOKE up. Fell out of bed. The terrain out of Bairnsdale on the Dargo Road was a different road experience to yesterday. There were more sheep instead of cattle. We stopped sometimes to marvel at baby lambs dragging on their mother's teats. We also stopped to morbidly assess last night’s carnage- wombat and kangaroo on the side of the road. The fields, too, had changed, farming-wise. Instead of dairy farming, winter crops instead, and fields of what looked like wheat. Are wheat crops compatible in winter?

We found ourselves in Glenaladale at a horse riding camp called ‘Coonawarra.’ We were too late for a planned two hour ride. Instead the instructor rode off with experienced riders who were on time, and we were left to parade the girls around ourselves on a dirt track in circles a bit like a rugged version of the mounting yard at Flemington racecourse. Lolly was a passive agreeable horse who was more than happy to make about a hundred strolls in wide circles, one lightly built child at a time.

About twenty minutes away was the Mitchell River National Park, situated right on the Mitchell River. A skinny track led us to The Bluff- a lovely lookout over the glistening river and rugged granite cliffs. The gravel path undulated gently and in our minds took us far away. I sang ‘And The Tide Rushes In’ at the top of my voice.

Photos of landmarks that reminded us of yesteryear on the way back. Old service stations now closed and derelict; ancient farm buildings with an old wooden wagon. Then suddenly we were driving along the busy Bairnsdale Streets. Antique shops, the expansive Salvation Army store. The impressive St Mary’s Catholic Church. Simply just crossing the road alone threw me back to wandering the quiet country streets of Wangaratta when I first left home. I knew nobody and was initially quite lonely. Still, the memory gave me a romantic association and somehow I felt free, a feeling naturally that I don’t associate with streets like Sydney Road back home.

 

The exterior of the Grand Terminus Hotel behind Main Street has probably changed since the days after it was first built in 1885. The lovely nostalgic photos inside suggest this but there is a strong resemblance just the same. As we began driving home after dinner, we saw other charming old buildings to explore for another day- the courthouse and the library for example. After this, thick night fell very quickly.

 

Motoring Around: The Pleasures of East Gippsland Part 2

JULY 9

 

SARSFIELD, NR BAIRNSDALE

THIS morning we slept a bit too long on uncomfortable bedding. It was the first night of the newest Ashes cricket series, from Cardiff. A restless night. Eventually we got dressed and went for a renewed tour of the farm, visiting the animals that provided our entertainment last night. S and I were looking at the ducks and geese. Tiffany shouted out from the house ‘you can let them out!’  I did. Then S had a horrible feeling we had misheard and wondered how we could get them back behind the wire again. ‘But it’s ok’, I said hopefully. ‘Foxes only appear at night.’

We left Sarsfield mid-morning en route to Lakes Entrance. Last time we ventured here a few years ago, disaster struck. Our house became flooded in our absence because of the behaviour of an errant rat. This time, we cross our fingers.

The road to Marlo and Cape Conran is pretty. The fields on either side of the road are marshy and green. There are a number of farms dotted around, and by the look of it, they are mostly dairy farms. We stop at one point and humans and cows lovingly gaze at one another across a small ditch. The crossword keeps us busy. We are briefly stumped on a word starting with ‘O’ in reference to ‘threatening.’ It is the final word, and when we think of ‘ominously’, we have completed it.

The eastern beach at Cape Conran is rugged and pretty at the same time. A looks everywhere for shells which is par for the course, and S indulges in her new found love, handstands. I find any number of weird formations out of sea weed and sea and beach debris, and large sticks which I hurl into the water. The tide is coming in so we have to head back, but not before we explore the slate-grey jagged rocks at the beach’s edge. I imagine I am Ingmar B and I am on Faro.

We drive, calm and contented, toward Marlo. There is something about the name of the town. But we don’t really see much of it- just the pub which overlooks a pretty estuary. The girls memorably have their first ever taste of alcohol- a minuscule drop of red wine.

 

Wending our way back homeward, it is starting to darken. A comments from the back of the car that she likes the orange sunset strip in the sky. We stop, looking for adventure, at one of those dairy farms we passed much earlier. The friendly farm woman is milking her cows, by machine. Some metal implement squeezes their teats, as they chew on cow feed passively. There is much bemusement about the cascading of cow waste. It’s a good country education for all of us. The cows rotate on their metallic roundabout contraption, then peel off.

The final stop is the supermarket in Orbost. The night sky envelops us all around. We are home at the cottage, satisfied. The cricket is back on.

 

Getting Away: The Pleasures of East Gippsland Part One

SARSFIELD NR BAIRNSDALE

JULY 8

WE are in a little place called Sarsfield, near Bairnsdale. We arrived last night with just a few hours of daylight left. It is a family farm with an adjacent wooden cottage. The owner’s son, a fifteen year old boy called Ashley, immediately gave us a tour of the property. He did it with a certain relish. He loves living here. I told him we are city people, naïve and curious. Simply adorned with t-shirt and shorts, he was full of chatter and friendliness and charm. We visited the large sow who wandered over from behind her fence repaying our curiosity with curiosity of her own. Her body was warm and her back felt like the straw you find from the bottom of an outdoor broom.

Then we saw the myriad ducks and geese soldiering around, seemingly at random. Not quite as friendly, they kept a few paces ahead of us, expectant of food. Ashley collected white buckets filled with pellets. His slightly older sister, Tiffany, joined us in her tracksuit. She had food for the ducks. The four of us were to feed the pigs. Their large pen was mud-filled. We approached them excitedly and what a raucous sound they provided! The air became filled with heavy grunts and high pitched squeals. I thought of the young porkers in ‘Animal Farm.’ Some of the pigs climbed on other pigs’ backs. We splashed the food randomly on the soft surface of the muddy floor and patted their backs while they ate.

 

When Ashley finished his farm stories and the animals were satisfied we wandered back to our cottage to prepare dinner. By now, in the twilight, a heavy mist had descended spookily all about us, sitting on the surface of the land. These are all new experiences. Stars began appearing. I swear the sky towards the horizon was a distinct mauve or lilac colour.