The View From Connor's Hill (16 page)

Sand trout were the opposite of the black snake. In broad daylight, they would lie on the bottom in the open water, facing upstream and wagging their tail fins slowly, soaking up the sun, oblivious to strangers. You could walk quite close to them in the crotch-high water before they would dart off at great speed. When bored, I would occasionally get my bamboo rod and catch a sand trout. With worm for bait, it was simply a matter of casting several yards out from the fish and then winding in the bait until it was in front of the trout's mouth. Every now and then it would casually swim forward a little and swallow the bait. It gave little or no fight after I'd reeled it in, and Mum would have it cooked that day. Only two or three small fish were needed for a tasty meal.

The platypus and the sand trout would ignore each other. Other neighbours quite common along the banks in those days were waterjacks, which are like small goannas — large, lizard-like, native Australian reptiles. The moment they spotted you or heard you walking along the river bank, they would make a dash for the river, and would belly-flop into the stream and swim at great speed, their heads above the water. Once they reached the other bank, they bolted away to find some cover. They had a most ungainly way of running, their little legs flailing into the air in a circular motion, while their heads remained rigid, still, and erect, displaying the glare of an army sergeant-major.

The sand trout and the platypus both ignored this dashing reptile, but the little grey eel was a different matter. From what I could see, every time a grey eel ventured into a platypus's territory, the platypus's only aim seemed to be to kill the invader. The eel was too quick for the freakish-looking, duck-like beaver, and I never saw an eel attacked, captured, or killed, but it was full-on war by the platypus battalion. Perhaps the eels stole the eggs or ate the babies. Certainly, while most eels were only eighteen inches to two feet long, and appeared harmless, they were meat eaters.

I recall vividly, as a kid, seeing this demonstrated one evening at a barbecue at the Swifts Creek Gun and Angling Club, when a competition was held for the biggest eel caught. As usual, the proceeds raised on the night would go to a worthwhile cause like the local kindergarten or the bush-nurse clinic. The barbecues were set up on the banks of the Tambo. Earlier that day, Fitzy, the ‘creek butcher', had filled a large sock with offal and congealed blood. The sock — lowered into the river just out from the bank near the barbecue area — leaked blood, and this trailed downstream. By the evening, there were hundreds of eels trying to attack the sock. Then, by means of handlines that were fitted with a wire trace and swivel (because eels would bite through a normal fishing line), and a chunk of meat fed onto the hook, numerous eels were caught, measured, and weighed.

By late evening, the contestants — full of sausages, amber fluid (either tea or beer), and endless recitations of
The Man from Snowy River
and the like from a local poet laureate, Kanga Miles — had almost forgotten about the competition. Still, the judge's results were announced and prizes were given. The winning catch would always be a massive congo or spotted eel. Although rare, these monsters were huge: they were more than three feet long and could weigh well over fifteen pounds, and the head was as big as an adult's sandshoe. Over the years, I would have seen only a dozen of them. They swam close to the river bank; their main source of food was the little sand trout.

I always wanted to catch myself a congo eel. It would have been something to brag about at school — maybe I'd even try to eat one, but that would have depended on Mum, since she would be cooking it.

One day I finally got my chance. It was a hot summer's day, and I was dressed and ready for cricket. My brother John had been down near the river, but he ran back up to the house and, pulling my arm, pointed to the Tambo River. I ran down, and found what had distressed young John: it was a huge congo, cruising the river directly below our house.

As it happens, I'd just turned thirteen, and one of my birthday presents was a beauty — a rifle. Well, it wasn't exactly a present: I'd been lent a rifle. With teenage bravado and stupidity, I thought I would use it to stop one of these giants.

When I spotted it, the eel was lazily folding its way slowly along the bank about two feet under the water. I'd shot many harmless water creatures with Dad's 22-calibre rifle. It was simple — by poking the barrel just under the water and then pulling the trigger, I'd concuss them. Mostly, I shot at trout and grey eels. After the explosion, they became stunned and floated to the top. However, the congo eel was a big target, and it required formidable firepower. I had just the thing to deal with it: a big rifle.

Vic Antinoff had decided that I was old enough — and, let us say, mature enough — to borrow his special rifle, a fine-looking, sporting .303 rifle, for my birthday. This was exciting. It was a beautiful-looking weapon with a polished wooden butt. To be honest, the rifle was more than a loan but less than a present — it was more in the way of a bribe to entice me to shoot kangaroos, which were becoming a problem on the farm.

For the uninitiated, the .303 takes a very big bullet, much larger than a 22-calibre. The .303 rifle had been used in World War II; when fired, it has a kick like a mule. It would simply blast a rabbit to bits. It is a very scary weapon.

Back to the congo eel … I rushed back up to the house, removed the .303 rifle from its pouch, and pocketed a couple of bullets. Armed with the cannon-like weapon, I then dashed back to the river. The eel, which appeared asleep, was gracefully and slowly swinging its tail while stationary — great. I poked the barrel down into the water just above its head, so that only the trigger and butt were out of the water. With Davy Crockett-like coolness, I gently squeezed the trigger — remember, this was my first-ever shot with it — when, holy smoke, Jesus, and strike me pink! There I was, flying through the air backwards at bullet speed. I was crunched against a gate some 25 yards back from the river, before a huge but brief shower of water fell on me. Finally, I slid down the wire netting into a sitting position, the rifle still in my hands. Boy, was I in pain. My damn shoulder throbbed, and my neck and jaw felt like I'd done ten rounds with Les Darcy. However, all that pain soon paled into insignificance when I looked at the .303 still clutched in my right hand. The barrel, split wide open and bent at an angle, looked more like a bluster gun. Hell, the old man would kill me. This rifle was like Mum's good scissors — sacred stuff.

Stunned and leaning on the gate, I didn't have to linger for too long. Attracted by the sonic boom — and maybe by water falling on the roof, and the fact that my brother John had cleared back to the house screaming blue murder — the oldies appeared.

I quickly got to my feet, looking very sheepish and pretending that nothing had happened. As you might guess, my parents weren't impressed. There was no, ‘Jeez, what happened?' or, ‘Are you okay, Baz?' Instead, Dad yelled, ‘What the hell happened to the rifle, ya dopey prick? Shit. Victor will kill me.'

Then Mum said, ‘You're soaked. How'd ya get so wet, you stupid, stupid boy?'

Now, like most youngsters in this kind of predicament, my mind was racing trying to invent a white lie that would save my hide. Telling a white lie is, in fact, easy; it's whether it has any credibility that's the problem. Consequently, flashing rapidly through my mind were obvious excuses: one of those ‘above the Gap' beggars had been trying to steal our milker … there'd been a huge kangaroo, or maybe a dingo, at our back door … I'd found an old World War II unexploded bomb …

However, before I could even open my mouth, my little brother spotted a somewhat stunned, but alive and healthy, congo eel rolling and swimming its way up the river in a peculiar fashion.

‘Are you a complete moron?' asked Dad.

The answer was obvious, so I didn't reply.

‘Bloody Vic will spew when he sees this,' he said, pointing to the .303, which now looked like an eighteenth-century scattergun.

I didn't go to the cricket, and managed to survive to the next day. I say this because when I gingerly got out of bed and inspected myself in the bathroom mirror the following morning, I got a shock. Bruises ran from the base of my neck, all over my ribs, and down to my tummy on the right side. Worse still, I had to keep this to myself; no way was I going to seek any of the sympathy that normally helps many a healing process. That was too risky. I decided my best move for the day was to avoid any human contact — particularly with the old man.

Victor had his rifle returned, and nothing was ever said to me.

What had happened? On pulling the trigger, the water blocked the bullet from leaving the barrel, and the force of the explosion had reversed backwards through the rifle butt, injuring my shoulder and my ego, and also causing me to get yelled at for minor misdemeanours for the next month. To put it simply, the bullet didn't move — I
became
the bullet. Like I said, it was pretty stupid, but I'd had no idea that this would happen.

THE TAMBO RIVER
carried trout, but it paled in comparison to some of the mountain streams in the high country. Narrow creeks, only several feet across, were home to some of the nicest trout I have ever eaten. One such good stream for fishing was the Mitta Mitta River.

For the novice trout fisherperson, there were many tricks of the trade to learn: the bait, the need to be very quiet, to mind your shadow and the time of day — these are just a few of the many I could list.

Now, I admit, I wasn't very keen on fishing. However, my younger brother John begged me to take him with us the next time we ventured out to the Blue Duck on the Mitta Mitta River.

So, when we managed on our next trip to get a lift with Don Walker, a bloke from Swifts Creek, there were five of us, and John. Unfortunately, on the two-hour drive to the camp, John vomited for most of the trip; it was a very winding road. We'd taken grasshoppers and fresh earthworms with us for bait. Ignoring John's distressed condition, the on-board experts on the art of trout fishing and fly-fishing plied him with endless advice. Repeatedly, he was told that when fishing for trout, the slightest noise or shadow over the water would guarantee there'd be no fish to catch.

We arrived after the very arduous trip along a rutted dirt road — possibly the worst road in Victoria at the time. We jumped out of the car, baited up and, keen to start, set off individually in different directions on both sides of the river. In places, dense, low, entangled bush covered the rive rbank. This made it hard to cast our lines. Although we decided to head off on our own, I knew that John was nearby, somewhere to my left. After half an hour, I guessed, most had found their fishing spots. All was quiet when I heard something that sounded like, ‘Marby … mifmup … millmoo.'

What an unusual noise. I worked out that it came from a human, but what the heck was going on? So much for the quiet … and it was getting louder.

‘Mwarry … moep … melp … millya.'

I thought,
It must be my little brother. The little rotter … so much for quiet fishing. I'll drown the little blighter. What's his problem anyhow?

I crashed along the bank, getting angrier every step.
The little hound. I'll fix him
, I thought. Then I found my brother — his head was pointing to the heavens, his back to me. With difficulty, he turned to face me. Hell's bells! I could see the reason for the strange mumbled noises. Poor little Bonkeye (his nickname) had tried to cast his grasshopper out into the river. The line had struck a branch above his head, spun in a circle, and on the way up the hook had lodged itself in his bottom lip. He couldn't even lower his head. What a sight. I rushed off and got the other blokes to have a look before I cut the hook.

Poor Bonkeye … peels of laughter initially greeted him, and then we removed the hook, and continued fishing. Over the years, John was to become an excellent fly and trout angler.

As I said, the Tambo River had a poor reputation when it came to fishing. In fact, the Tambo River's story is a sad one. Over a period of only a decade, it changed markedly for the worse. From the 1950s to the late 1960s, on the river banks, the once odd willow tree became a jungle of both Basket and Weeping Willows. The platypus disappeared rapidly — so much so that I have never seen one since I left school. The bottom of the river, once yellow sand, or a delightful rainbow of many coloured rocks, became a thin slime of green. The water became undrinkable. The flow dropped by roughly two-thirds. There were no more sand trout or waterjacks; just the odd grey eel. The Tambo turned into a low-flowing creek.

This dramatic change wasn't caused by a new dam, or by irrigators or town water-suppliers siphoning off more water. My guess was that it was due to a change in farming practices. The use of superphosphate as a fertiliser boomed in that decade and beyond. Tractors pulling super spreaders, and light aircraft spreading the familiar, white, crushed phosphate rock from Nauru, were now a common practice on every farm. The positive results for farmers showed in increased stocking rates, bigger wool clips, fatter calves, and more hay. Once considered marginal farming country, the very steep and hilly land became country that ran one-and-a-half sheep to the acre. Droughts, although still arriving regularly, were now handled much better: farmers were more prepared, with their haysheds full, and more money to spend on dams, water storage, and pipes to troughs all over the farm. The increased income allowed farmers to sow down more pasture, to experiment with a variety of sheep and cattle breeds and, finally, to clear more land. Many farmers could now afford to own or hire large equipment such as bulldozers.