“Hey look at that” Bill said, indicating a small, swirling spot in the water just ahead of our canoe. My mind’s eye had also registered a little flat-beaked head and beady eyes, momentarily looking at us, as we paddled. “It must have been a fish” Bill conjectured “I don’t think Platypus are active during the day.” Ten minutes later and we saw another little plump, flattish stick suddenly arch and glide slickly under the water. That was definitely a Platypus!
We had just 30 minutes before launched our four-metre-long Canadian open canoe from Thornton, 200 kilometres northeast of Melbourne into the fast-flowing Goulburn River. It was the start of a four-day adventure paddling 90-odd kilometres down to our planned ‘take-out’ at Trawool, near Seymour.
The river was flowing at about 5 kilometres an hour and was going to provide a lot of help with the down-river trip. In the last week of October, the Water Catchment Authority had released significant flows, for both the farmers and environmental well-being. A week later and the 300mm dark stain on the banks confirmed that levels were already falling, but there was plenty for our needs.
I was a canoeing novice, having years before hired canoes in the Northern Territory’s Katherine Gorge. But Bill had had the Canadian for 30-odd years and learned to understand her temperament and moods. It was reassuring, as were the floatation vests.
Captain Bill was at the stern, me in the bow and in between was an assortment of swags, tents, cameras and spare clothes all packed into waterproof bags, along with cooking gear and an esky. Everything had been tied and linked together to facilitate retrieval in the event of a mishap. Despite the heavy load we rode high out of the water and were ‘drawing’ 50mm –plenty of clearance to safely clear submerged nasties.
The first rapids arrived. Previous advice was that if we survived these, the rest of the journey should be trouble-free. Bill explained the circular patches of smooth water that appeared regularly. “They’re pressure waves,” he said, “the water coming up against rocks on the bottom and pushing the water up to the surface”. They were not an issue. “Our guiding principle is to keep her nose-first, always heading straight down the guts” he advised. “She’s not a kayak, doesn’t have the same manoeuvrability – built for comfort, not speed so our paddles are the trick. Use em.”
I was nervous as the rapids arrived. They probably only represented a drop of 150mm but the series of short whitecaps and bumps had my sphincter clenched! But we glided majestically through – nary a bump. I relaxed, a little and a few more had me gaining respect for both Bill’s canoe manship and the strengths of our craft.
That first day was an introduction to the delights of “…mucking about in boats”. While we both maintained wary eyes for snags, the chatter between for’ard and aft took on a more relaxed form. The platypi (I use the plural) continued their shy inspections, sometimes allowing the canoe to within a metre before their bum-up glide beneath the surface. We lost count – maybe a dozen in that first afternoon.
We found a pebbly beach and pulled in. We had been going about four hours and a G&T beckoned. The river bubbled in the background as camp was set, swags unrolled, the kitchen established, the esky broached. A Taramasalata dip, blue cheese, biscuits and an iced G&T confirmed that ‘knock-off’ had arrived.
A small comfort fire was built as the sun-bleached away. The portable gas burner had Chow Mein in the offing and a full moon appeared over the nearby hills. To top things off a mob of kangaroos were silhouetted on the ridgeline, coming out to graze as the daylight gently mellowed.
Two young males were magnificently silhouetted on the ridge, sparring with each other. Tails were being used as backstops, while arms sought purchase, freeing hind legs and their sabre-like toenails to practice what might one day deliver mortal wounds.
There was an orange wash across the sky, reddened streaked on the underside of the clouds and we settled for the evening, tossing around the highlights, a quaffable Merlot agreeably dulling slight aches and niggles!
It was an early start next morning. A bit chilly but I nudged the fire back with a few leaves and a couple of twigs. Priority was to get the coffee pot going and a clear blue sky suggested another beautiful day on the water. Bacon and eggs – protein overload to fuel the day!
We were on the water by 7.30. Our little aquatic friends were there from the start and continued to enquire our form throughout the day. The birds, their squarks and chirps of initial consternation as we rounded a bend – this long green intruder with the orange-bladed sticks coming rapidly into their domain until the tree-topped crows sounded the ‘all-clear’ with several lazy faarrks.
The wood ducks were forever distrustful of our intrusion and were the first to be off – a noisy commotion to left or right and a dozen flew off down the river, well before we approached. I never saw them returning up river and idly wondered if we would eventually come across a huge, down-river duck-convention?
We stopped for morning smoko and another for ham, castello and salad rolls. By G&T time we both did our separate calculations and reckoned 35 kilometres. We had stopped at the little town of Molesworth and treated ourselves to an ice cream and another bag of ice.
There had been more rapids, a few close shaves with submerged logs but Bill and I were working effectively as a team. There were discussions about channels to follow, when the river divided around a clump of willows. Mostly we made the right choices. On one occasion we didn’t, going into the left channel and ending up pinned against a tree that had fallen across the entire width. There was mild anxiety from me, a little consternation and instruction from the Captain to “keep her upright – don’t let water come over the upstream side, whatever yer do.” Bill was out into the knee-deep water and in a flash we had manoeuvred her around and through the dead branches and away we went.
A signpost would have been good at that last river junction! There were a couple of bridges connecting someplace to another. We saw a couple fly fishing and another family camping beside the river. Apart from that, we had the river to ourselves – and it was a Spring weekend!
Night two, in hindsight was a bad choice. With camp set up and the light fading I went for a wander. I surprised a wombat, recently emerged from its burrow and then saw the stagnant water of an oxbow lake, just behind our camp. The mosquitoes were friendly and the Pork and duck snags over Cous Cous was hurriedly eaten and we retreated into the tents.
Another early start – the hot, strong black coffee kicked us into gear and we were underway by the time the kookaburras had cleared their throats. There were several tortoise-sightings and trout were evident in the shallow backwaters – we had a license, a couple of lures and one reel borrowed from an old rod. We trolled unsuccessfully for a while. I was surprised that we didn’t snag the lure.
Another beautiful day on the river – another 30+ kilometres downstream. We had been passing through a bushland corridor that buffered the rich, river flats behind. Some areas were infested with the ubiquitous blackberry scourge, but there were long stretches of seemingly pristine, mixed eucalypt, acacia and callistemon bushland. Much of the river was lined with willows and despite knowledge of their impact on river health, I admit a delight in the fairly constant, lemony-green corridor.
In the lower reaches of our journey, huge granite boulders protruding from the adjacent hillsides extended into the river as rounded sentinels. Occasional gravelly spits narrowed our options, as the river changed its course. Remnant tree stumps and submerged logs were there but a cautious eye quickly learnt to identify the tell-tale signs – the increasing water speed, the sound of rushing water, bursting around tree trunks, or through the branches of the willows, the subtle change in water colour as shallow water is approached.
A third night out. This time we inspected thoroughly before a final site selection was made. A pebble beach; a small corps of young eucalypts – plenty of firewood; a low grassy flat leading to unfenced fields of cereal. Perfecto and G&T O’clock, here we come!
We considered having a bogey in the river but it was cold, cold, cold water. A quick flip up and under the pits, a face wash and pretence that the odour enveloping the canoe was a new bush scent! Bill cooked up his specialty pesto pasta, avec tinned salmon. A couple of Merlots’ and campfire reverie got well and truly underway. Reminiscences were back into the 70’s and 80s – times when we were both working in the NT. But that’s another story…