Drifting Down the Darling

By Tony Pritchard

Drifting down the Darling can best be described as the incoherent thoughts of a traveller who will use any excuse to put a boat onto the Darling River and then write crazy stories about birds. These stories are often made up and he blames others for ‘not understanding him’ as the reason he exaggerates. Do not listen to anything he says about Australian birds-none of his observations are based on skill, truth, or even reality.
Although he often denies it, Tony Pritchard was born and raised in West Dubbo. He spent his first twenty years staring at pigeons but is not sure why he did this. He has resisted various attempts to educate him and subsequently cannot count beyond twenty-one. He is also an ungrateful swine who blames his Dubbo upbringing for his personality disorders, the reason he drifted on the Darling River for almost eighteen months and the fact that he tells lies every time he opens his mouth. He is a failed tradie who has caused several hundred roofs in Dubbo to leak, a former footballer who ran onto the field at least twice, and a confused person who keeps searching for things.
In an effort to gain sympathy, he also recalls the difficulties he faced in foreign countries. Things such as being strip-searched in Israel, and a couple of unconventional departures (usually known by customs as being deported).
Throughout the Darling River story we learn about Pritchard’s insecurities, anxieties and other fine character points. He says this river trip made a man out of him, but we’ve heard of those who say he may have his genders mixed up.
After drifting down the Darling, he lived alone for a year next to the Macquarie Marshes, and this is where Pritchard unravelled. He rejects the assumption that he had a mental breakdown. ‘It was a spiritual awakening’, he said. ‘One that gave me great insight into an approach to living that to this day gets me by. I am now more secretive with emotions.’
This book will surely set back memoir writing fifty years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Nov 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781925353877

Tony Pritchard

Tony Pritchard was born in Dubbo, New South Wales, in 1952. He has travelled extensively and rates the Darling River as the best place in the world. He currently lives in a shed in Brisbane and is sometimes home to feed the chooks, water the chokoes and to make more lists. His wife loves him.

Book preview

DRIFTING

down the

DARLING

Tony Pritchard

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd PO BOX 147 Hazelbrook NSW 2779

http://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2015 © Tony Pritchard

All rights reserved

Cover image © Tony Pritchard

Cover design by Peter Harris

Licence Notes

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The Murray-Darling Basin

Disclaimer

This book is my version of experiences before, during and after drifting down the Darling River and my recollections are relatively factual. I have made a huge effort to make contact with those I met, or their descendants or estates, to ask for permission to use names, places and events. If I have misquoted you, spelt your name incorrectly, or said things about you I maybe shouldn’t have; I apologise. I have changed a few names because I don’t like being yelled at. To use information from books, songs, poems, photos, various artworks and websites, I tried to contact all copyright owners. The response has been extraordinary – usually with permission and good wishes – and I have acknowledged these either throughout or at the end, and I thank you. Unintended errors in facts, opinions, or what actually happened are mine and if you see any, I prefer not to know.

TP

First bit

Little campfires, with flickering orange flames and red coals, allow you to stare and dream, and that’s why they were invented. You can even do small jobs like re-position the billy, but these will not break the trance, nor will you remember making these small movements. Just your mind and a little campfire. Little fires only allow good thoughts in; this is a fact. There is no way that you can feel bad. Your spirit will travel into the coals and absorb peace and tranquillity; no worry or anxiety will enter. Of course, spirits don’t ever burn; they can take any sort of pain and will remain unscathed. Watch out for your fingers, though. And when you take your leave, you will walk away a free man, or a free woman; although other options may present themselves later. Any hopes and dreams you have, any aspirations for reparation, for poetry, any words of love, they are yours forever once you depart a little fire. It’s also a good idea to pour water on your campfire once you’re done dreaming.

In 1976, I stared at many small campfires on my way down the Darling River. I drifted over a thousand miles down this old river in western New South Wales in a ten-foot, flat-bottomed boat. I had no motor, no oars, just a paddle to get me to shore. The trip took around eighteen months. I went fishing and birdwatching, I stopped at towns, did a bit of station work, met some of Australia’s finest people and all the while looked for adventure and answers to life’s question about where I belonged; if indeed I did belong somewhere.

At that time, being a confused twenty-four year-old, my attitude to life was based on denial and my accompanying mental state was a bubbling stew pot with the lid on; waiting. Not waiting to explode in a frenzy of angry meat and potatoes but to implode in a recognition of its real ingredients; a fear of facing up to life, suppressed emotions and a non-acceptance of all of the above, including myself.

When I was a teenager, my mum died, I stuffed my knee and couldn’t play football anymore, then my back disintegrated and I couldn’t do my trade. A mature reaction to these events was called for. So I ran away. Overseas travel gave me respite from the losses and developing loneliness, and I stumbled on something called depression. London almost gave me a place to belong, and I then lived on a kibbutz. I returned to my home town, Dubbo; and I did not belong. So I did the only thing I knew that would ease the self-imposed blame-others anguish; I ran away. This time down the Darling River.

I drifted through the Macquarie Marshes to join the Barwon River, which then becomes the great Darling River. I passed through Brewarrina with its amazing Aboriginal fisheries, through Henry Lawson’s Bourke, learned about life in Louth, met the living-forever people from Tilpa, led with my head in Wilcannia, then turned off below Menindee to go down the Great Anabranch. The trip was partly about love; something I feared. Marvellous what you find when you’re not looking. Then after a visit to Melbourne to see my girl, I spent most of 1978 living alone in an old farmhouse next to the Macquarie Marshes. Right at the end of that year some things came apart and some came together. I think these days a mental breakdown is referred to as a spiritual awakening or a learning experience, but never mind, I did find something I had been looking for; right under my nose.

The most exciting thing I do these days is decide if I can make it to the mailbox and back – in the one day. A lifetime of sleeping on riverbanks, drinking Pilsener and telling lies to myself has left me a little crumbly at the edges, and I consider getting out of bed each morning a major achievement. But back in 1976 I was the man. I was handsome, tough and brave; although some have indicated that I was ugly, soft, and that I tell lies. To prepare for eighteen months of sleeping rough, of dodging pigs, snakes and incoherent thoughts on the old river, I had excellent training. There was no strict diet, no daybreak rises followed by arduous army-type exercises, and certainly no abstinence from alcohol or naughty thoughts. No; I had survived growing up in Dubbo, in country New South Wales. If you’re not busy this weekend, go for a visit. Make sure you leave a note on the kitchen table so the authorities will know where to search for your body if you don’t make it home. In West Dubbo, my side of town (clearly the more upmarket area let me tell you); you can still get anything you want; surface to air, a choice of things to yearn for, or early edition Phantom comics. Great place West Dubbo; I miss it terribly.

I have tried to describe what this trip down the Darling meant. I am still trying to decipher the complexities of solitude, the reason I howl at a full moon and why reflection can be a dangerous pastime. Had I known that being charged by wild pigs was a part of the search for belonging, I would have stayed in Dubbo and continued to drag my knuckles. Had I been aware that crying myself to sleep did not count as adventure, I would still be sitting in the bar at my favourite hotel, communicating in an endangered language that has been referred to as ‘white-trash with an accent’.

I have travelled to seventeen different countries, walked, hitched or crawled in nearly all Australian states and territories, and I still say the 1970s Darling River trip was the most exhilarating travel experience I have ever had. It was a mixture of the daily goings on that happened on the river and aspirations of a dreamer who did not know his place in the world. These aspirations were a combination of what is and what might be, sort of like faith I guess, and they both seeped into my whole body through each bend, each bird, and each bush character I met; until they became the making of me.

Part 1: 1976

The Macquarie Marshes and the Barwon River

The Macquarie Marshes

The Macquarie River starts near Bathurst, winds down through Dubbo, and then a little way past Warren, and spreads into the Macquarie Marshes – also known as birdwatching heaven. The Macquarie River then flows (usually) into the Barwon River, which changes its name to the Darling between Brewarrina and Bourke. Thirty miles past Warren is where the first river trip started. This starting place gave me a week of getting used to the rhythms of river life before I reached the Macquarie Marshes. Map courtesy of Gillian Hogendyk.

Green, Petrovic, Moss and Burrell wrote:

The Macquarie River breaks into a number of creeks and channels and forms a complex of wetlands called the South Marsh. The channels then coalesce for a brief stretch of river, before spreading out again into an­other vast complex of wetlands called the North Marsh. This complex of permanent wetlands, ephemeral wet­lands, and floodplain is collectively known as the Macqua­rie Marshes.

1

Facing death at 7 a.m. tends to bring the day into focus; and that’s even before a coffee hit. If I didn’t do this correctly, right here on the Macquarie River, I could die. And as I bent down to pick up a six-foot long, three-inch thick brown snake, I envisioned people back home in Dubbo thinking, ‘That Pritchard; you hear what he did out there on the rivers? All those snakes he picked up? My word he must be brave.’

But I wasn’t at all brave. It was a false front designed to trick people; myself included. I did other dangerous things too: climbing to birds’ nests on thin dead branches, leaning over the edge of two-thousand foot cliffs, taunting feral pigs so they would charge, and drinking coffee without milk. Stupidity is not only the cousin to adventure; it belongs to the family tree that includes the brainlessness of youth and a denial of mortality; both currently my strong points. There could be dry rot in a few branches.

But I didn’t die that morning. I put a stick on the snake’s neck (although there is not a definite delineation between a snake’s head and the remainder of its body as there is in humans – rugby league players the exception), and grabbed it just under the jaw with my thumb and my index finger on the top bit. I had to be careful because a snake’s jaws are sort of rubbery and can twist easily. I stroked his smooth skin and marvelled at the colour of his coils, all the while watching the little black beady eye that was watching me.

Doing risky things alone, away out there, was kind of dumb, but in my defence, twenty-four in the male world in 1976 was still considered youthful, although I have noticed lately being older does not always guarantee maturity or aversion to risk-taking.

In the following fifty years I have done seven more trips on the Darling, usually paddling around six-hundred kilometres each time (I have swapped the flat-bottomed tinnie for a canoe), and the recklessness of youth occasionally kicks in. Maybe one day I’ll come unstuck.

Police can’t understand how he fell; the Willie-Wagtail’s nest was only a metre off the ground. The autopsy also showed multiple double-puncture wounds, various cuts and slashes to the lower body, and residues of black coffee. Police said there were no suspicious circumstances.

The naturalist Harry Butler, my television hero, told me many years after I finished this trip, how to pick up snakes. ‘Dear Tony, There is no set snake catching technique for me. Depends what the snake is and how it is positioned which gives some indication of how it is feeling which will also assist in handling. Your technique of head pinning and jaw locking works well.

The advice Bill Bryson got in Down Under was interesting; But don't worry, she continued. Most snakes don't want to hurt you. If you're out in the bush and a snake comes along, just stop dead and let it slide over your shoes. This, I decided, was the least-likely-to-be-followed advice I have ever been given."

As I was about to enter the Macquarie Marshes, I met a jackaroo whose left foot was the size of a ripe watermelon.

He said, ‘Brown snake attacked me last week. I was near some reeds and this monster of a snake went for me.’

‘Didn’t you, like, run? Quite fast even?’

‘Sure I ran, but it kept chasing and striking me. I had riding boots on too. Can I say, you won’t outrun a snake; ever. So good luck in there.’

And so here I was, wearing footy shorts, sandshoes and a towelling hat, about to enter swamps that were seething with snakes, all concealed in the vegetation waiting to kill me.

And there was a minor flood coming, so the wide shallow nature of the marshes would mean that most camp sites would be under water. The extra water also meant that the faster current in the channels could trap me against logs and reeds. Then if I wasn’t tipped out and drowned; I would represent a dry bed for the snakes.

I came through a plain of dead trees, and the river branched four times. Decisions on which branch to go down were made on precise mathematical principles, sound logic and deep reasoning; also known as, Which one this time? I took three left and one right and was then funnelled into a very fast channel, narrow and deep, with eight-foot high dead reeds on either side. No turning back now. I bounced over logs, barbed-wire fences and mysterious things that lived underwater.

And because the extra water had limited the availability of un-wet land, I had to sleep in the boat. I thought this to be exciting and explorerish, but when I was forced to sleep in the boat down past Brewarrina as a bunch of snakes ganged up and tried to kill me, it somehow didn’t seem as romantic. Then it was freezing, cramped and scary. Slightly changed waterscape to be sure, but same boat and same sleeping arrangements, and I did wonder what the difference was. But for now, this southern marsh was adventure and this taste of wilderness gave me confidence for the next phase.

However, this epitome of innocence, keenness and cockiness, (i.e., same stupidity as before) had a slight setback as I prepared to enter the Northern Macquarie Marshes.

2

‘Yes, you got through the southern section, that’s easy, but you will not get through the Northern Marsh because all the channels flow into a wall of reeds; miles and miles across, and miles and miles deep, and the water does not come out the other side; nor will you. Many locals have tried it in canoes and couldn’t get through. And snakes? What you saw up until now was nothing; just wait until you get into those Northern Marshes.’

That love and support came from locals trying to scare me; and they did an okay job.

Fear can be that instant survival thing when vicious animals, military hardware or being caught with your hand in the lolly-jar threaten your life. For all three, it’s get-the-hell-out-of-there time. Or fear can be a fear of fear, or a projected what-might-happen thought, and could therefore be overcome by reversing those thoughts.

Easy to say; harder to unthink, and the fear I had was a cross between reality and imagination. I had seen reed beds, bulrushes and disappearing water, I had seen glistening brown snakes on a regular basis. Now my fear gave me visions of being jammed against that wall of reeds fending off hostile reptiles with the paddle.

One of the reasons I started this river trip was to do something that would make me feel good about myself. And my version of good, at that point, was to be tough and have no fear. But now the thought of getting stuck equalled an even greater fear; that of being thought by others as a failure. Letting others be the gauge of self-worth is fraught with tail-chasing. I know that now.

A trail of breadcrumbs obviously wouldn’t be practical; too many birds. So I did the only sensible thing I knew how to in these situations; I ran away. I removed myself from the place of fears. How easy was that? I paddled west until it was too shallow to do so, tied the boat to a tree, walked further west through swamps, prickles and bulldog ants until I hit the road, and then hitched a ride back into Warren. I wasn’t sure what I would do there. All I knew was that I was avoiding the reality of this situation by putting time and distance between me and the place of fear, because my boat was still back there.

I phoned dad, and we had a chat about pigeons and football. Then he said,

‘You’ve been away just over a week, everything okay?’

‘Oh you know, things are pretty good, really.’ There was a small silence. ‘Just having a cold beer in Warren.’

‘Right,’ he said.

‘Yeah, catching a few fish, seen fantastic water birds. Had a hot shower, too.’ Silence again.

‘Right,’ he said.

‘Lots of snakes too and apparently there are more in the northern marshes. The locals reckon the reed beds will stop me. Anyway, I’m clean and drunk.’ Silence; getting longer.

‘Give it your best shot; all you can do.’

As I walked to the outskirts of Warren to hitch a ride back to the boat, (I didn’t really mean it when I said I was going to quit), I was a few inches above the ground. Walking on air is what you do when you have conquered your world of fear and insecurity. It’s what you do when you have a dad who cares. The first lift couldn’t take me all the way to the tree that was my marker to head east to find the boat.

‘I’ll drop you here at my turnoff; you should pick up another ride before nightfall.’

He did and I didn’t, but it didn’t matter because when you are in one of those bouncy moods, nothing is not right. I had excellent provisions; half a home-made fruit cake and an orange, and even the chilly August night that was coming in blue waves across the paddock didn’t faze me. I had no blankets, but no matter because I had seen an alternative a few days before that impressed me. There was an empty grass bed out on the plains, and I had tried it for size and found it just right; soft and comfortably warm. The big black pig that owned it had decided to let me have it after I had asked him to do so. I then decided that these feral pigs weren’t as frightening as I’d heard; which was a view that would be soon challenged.

So right there next to the Warren-Carinda Road, I made a similar pig-bed. Found a hollow, lined it with grass, and had another pile of grass to pull on top of me. I was cosy all night, and at dawn, when I stuck my nose out, (it’s long like an echidna’s and quite large and curvy and I store my camping gear inside), it was really cold. I then realised that I was invincible. Dad had given me myself back. I would walk over those reed beds in the Northern Marshes; carry the boat if I had to. Going to give it my best shot.

3

In the Macquarie Marshes there are:

"…a wide range of vegetation types including river red gum woodland, water couch grasslands, coolabah and black box woodlands, lignum swamps, reed swamps, cumbungi and river cooba. The diversity of vegetation communities within the marshes provides habitat for an array of wildlife including 211 bird species, eight species of native mammal, 15 frog species, 56 reptile species and 24 native fish species." Thank you Gillian Hogendyk – it is a beautiful place.

I saw two nesting pairs of white-breasted sea eagles. You would think with Australia being an island and all, that they would have enough sea-water along Australia’s coastline. If they stay inland, they will need a name change to white-breasted sea and/or fresh water eagle, and attend some serious geography tutorials.

Black swans seem to nest in late winter and their nests are quite large mounds surrounded by water, looking like castles and they mostly use reeds and thin stuff and the bit where the eggs are laid is so soft it’s quite okay to curl up and sleep in there; and when the cygnets hatch they don’t mind company. I saw hundreds of such nests, but also one nest that was built from large sticks, like those used by a wedge-tailed eagle. The locals didn’t believe me about this. No mate, swans’ nests are only made out of reeds, sedges and soft things, never with sticks. We’re locals and we know stuff. Who you trying to kid? You won’t get through them reeds, you know that don’t you?

Swans can dance; a pair can do synchronised swimming on top of the water. Two necks curved down, two red beaks, gently touching sides, slowly in circles, slowly in lines, slowly skating on the surface. I also saw brolgas dancing, their lanky legs stepping out, heads bobbing, wings outstretching. I saw great-crested grebes dancing, those shaved-necked punks that have studs and tatts, graceful, and full of passion.

Some of the water birds were very nervous types. When you made shadow puppet things across their lagoon, and your hands have to be fairly large in order to do this, they squealed and ran across the water to the safety of the reeds, leaving circular expanding ripples. I suppose if you were a coot or a moorhen and you chose not to be skittish and get the hell out of there, the one time you said, Nah, it’s just some fool playing silly buggers, it would be a swamp harrier, and you would be in large bother.

Some raptors fly openly out of their hiding places. Swamp harriers don’t; they emerge. These harriers glide just above the reeds on upswept wings. They don’t have legs with talons; they have grappling hooks, dangling there ready to pounce on confused cloud-shy water birds. When black ducks get a fright, particularly from a pair of industrial hooks, they don’t just fly away to safety, they erupt vertically out of the water, whereas a white-faced heron and the slightly larger white-necked heron will lift themselves out gracefully, then bank to the side.

Some water birds, like pelicans, land gracefully in the water. They slide like they are on glass, and then sink when they stop. Musk ducks don’t land in in the water, they crash.

I started watching birds at around twelve months old, and the binoculars were heavy as they dangled there banging against my poor little tummy as I was pushed along in a trolley. Mummy, I say mummy, could you please slow down a tad, I see a grey-crowned babbler.

I have recorded a few observations of my own on the habits and personalities of some of the birds in western New South Wales, and I usually discuss these bird attributes with myself, because farmers, fishermen and hotel patrons would run away screaming when I would garble on. Birds not only do what they are supposed to do, i.e., fly and build nests (of course some species don’t fly particularly well, and some don’t build much of a nest either), but all birds have distinct personalities. They talk to one another, often through non-verbals. They also have emotions and aspirations for a better life. My notes explain why pelicans are not really pelicans; they are in disguise. And that nankeen night-herons are something entirely different to what they are supposed to be, which is a brown bird that clucks like a chook. After you read a couple of these character observations, you will either say, ‘My goodness, this Pritchard fellow knows his stuff,’ or, ‘How come he’s alone way out there in the bush making up stuff? Doesn’t he have to report to the police each day?’

Just as a reminder, an apology if you like, to real birdwatchers; my observations are often bizarre, largely irrelevant, and will not enhance contemporary knowledge of Australian birds; ever. Funny though, some of them. And if you are a birdwatcher, you will know a side of life only seen by those who wear those white jackets with the arms folded around, those who watch B-grade movies by choice, and those who cultivate mistletoe to be used as a courting item. You will know that warm feeling as you watch a little falcon ripping a corella into little pieces; you will understand bravery when you see the father wood duck doing the broken-wing act across the river that would surely land him a part in any drama production, no further audition necessary, thank you, just turn up next Tuesday.

If you’re not a birdwatcher, please be assured that by the end of this story you will purchase a pair of binoculars and a field guide, and very soon afterwards you will phone friends and convince them that they must come over, now, because there’s a square-tailed kite in the tree next door. And why only the other day you saw a mob of five-hundred white-breasted wood swallows. Your life then will also be in rapid decline; you will no longer be invited to any form of social gathering, you will always wake at dawn, waiting; and you will become a list person. Very unsettling to be around. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I knew birdwatching was indeed something special but I couldn’t yet work out why. I knew there was more and felt that I was getting there, somewhere, somehow, but hadn’t fully understood its deeper meanings; including access to self-belief. I also couldn’t grasp its closeness to a feeling that I call god; not yet.

I like to identify new birds, very much so, but the ones seen often are just as exciting. The Northern Macquarie Marshes gave me both types; white-eyed ducks, blue-billed ducks, musk ducks and whistling ducks were in the first category, and the dusky moorhens, coots and swamphens in the second. I waded, I tripped and I awed.

I saw hoary-headed grebes, white-fronted chats, spotted crakes, owlet nightjars going churr churr in daylight, crimson wings who have an opposite colour scheme to king parrots, royal spoonbills with a stature that accentuates their black bill and mullet, I saw twenty-one brolgas, now there is beauty and grace; I saw egrets so white you just know they have used bleach. And while I did get stuck every now and again in the northern Macquarie Marshes, every day was magic, not because I was still alive at the end of each one but because I had seen birds. And although I certainly did go down the Darling for adventure and to go birdwatching, there was something else; something that I thought easily obtainable – finding a place to belong.

4

Was belonging about a physical place? About a town called Dubbo? At one time for me it was and as its bedrock I had two wonderful parents. I did not appreciate what they did for me until I melted down after the river trip.

Dad came to every football match I ever played and he took me fishing approximately twenty-four hours a day. We did stuff like build an aviary, patch up a wooden boat and he taught me about homing pigeons. By the time I was nine I was an expert in iridology, genetics and the