Published: 2 Mar 2026
Day One…..the fishing begins;
Morning arrives early in those northern reaches. Firstly it is the birds as the first ray of light is barely visible over the lofty eastern mountains soon followed by the sun that by late morning has the sting of a paper wasp. This is a time before sunscreen without concern towards skin cancer when melanoma is a word known only to the boffins. A hat would suffice to keep away the glare but unlike their southern cousins a long sleeve shirt would cover the arms to prevent excessive tanning. It wouldn’t prove sapient to appear too suntanned or you may be mistaken for a native, as even the slightest tinge of colour could bring about discrimination, to be nicknamed Darkie may not have anything to do with your hair colouring, or the shade of your character.
Barry is up with the birds, he has always been early to rise as being the oldest son to a tobacco farmer most of his work is done before the day becomes too hot, otherwise left to the coolness of the evening. Also Barry is more sensible than his contemporaries, possibly from working the land almost since he could walk. Farming is a hard life regardless if you grow tobacco or tomatoes, true there is much downtime while waiting for a crop to reach harvest but most of that is taken up by preparation or mending and Barry at twenty-one and a couple of months is as skilled as any man twice his age and had been since his early teenage years. Even so Barry left the farm to his younger brother to inherit and purchasing an old truck he took on the business of wood carting with the occasional removalist job, at least in doing so he was his own boss and time is his own.
It is a quiet morning; the birds had sung their songs leaving only crows with their plaintive calls and a number of hawks circling high above catchingthe thermals. Snoring can be heard from the tent occupied by Michael and Luke, Barry smiles as past experience tells him it is Luke.
No one else appears to be interested in meeting the day.
Barry soon has the morning fire going then gases up the breakfast barbeque.
He sorts through the fishing gear, in most it is simple reel lines, bait bags with oodles of hooks and sinkers, mostly equipment a seasoned fisherman would laugh at.
Moments later the first of the morning’s sunshine beams through the tree tops and strikes Barry’s face.
Barry smiles as he collects two galvanised tubs brought along to hold water for washing.
Barry bangs the tubs together, ringing out an ear-piercing sound, scaring away a number of apostle birds gathered about the camp looking for bread crumbs.
“Right you girls – wakie-wakie, hands of snakie.”
More banging.
“Wakie-wakie, time for breakfast and that fishing you all promised.”
There is an oddity with many fishing expeditions, especially those arranged by those unseasoned to the sport that being very little fishing is ever done.
Eventually Barry manages to bring Grady and Luke into the new day, although neither appeared happy towards what is considered an early start on a holiday weekend.
“Whose turn is it for cooking?” Barry asks.
Grady stands by yawning. “Coffee first,” he reports partway through the yawn.
“For coffee you need boiling water,” Barry suggests.
More yawning as Wayne Nelson pokes his head through his tent flap.
“Shit that sun is strong, what time is it?” Nelson asks.
“Almost seven,” Barry answers.
Wayne grumbles and reaches for his trousers.
Eventually all six grumbling campers are about.
Only Barry appears awake.
“I’ll get the water,” Biff offers, “but before I do anything I need to piss.
Michael and Biff are taking their first piss of the day and move to the side of the clearing.
Michael doesn’t even bother to hide the fact.
“For Christ sake Brownie turn about, who wants to see your hairy tackle, it’s enough to put me off my tucker,” Biff suggests.
Michael ignores Biff;
“I’ve never gone river fishing before, only surf fishing down at Palm Cove, what’s the best time to throw in a line,” Wayne Nelson asks.
“About two hours ago,” Barry suggests.
“So that fucks the fishing for the day,” Michael calls back as Biff goes for water to make the coffee.
“Don’t forget Mick two shakes.” Grady calls.
“What are you talking about Greedy?”
“More than two shakes and it’s a wank.”
“Would you like to shake it for me?”
The suggestion is ignored.
“Depends how hungry the fish are,” Luke reports on fishing times, being the only fisher of inland water with the group he appears to know a little about the sport.
Biff returns from the creek with a kettle of water, he places it into a part of the fire that has burned down to coals to save the gas for cooking.
With breakfast done; of course supervised by Barry and performed by Grady, it was time for that promised bout of fishing. Wayne with Luke appeared eager, the others followed to the water in Indian fashion with Biff lagging at the rear.
Towards the water Grady falls back to Biff.
Once out of range of the others, Grady speaks;
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Who says I have a problem?”
“Shit Biff, I’ve known you long enough to know when you are in a mood.”
“I shouldn’t have come,” Biff says.
“Why?”
“I have this strange feeling.”
“Feeling?”
“Yes Grady a feeling as if something is about to happen.”
“Like what?”
“You know like what Ron often says; as if someone has walked across my grave, besides I don’t think I’m even half forgiven for leaving the club.”
“I’m also giving it away.”
“It is different for you as your leaving is still at suggestion and not totally committed to.”
“We won the game for them, what more do they want?” Grady says.
“That was last season and buried now it is only the next season that counts.”
“We could change our minds and play another season.”
“Would you?” Biff asks.
“No, I’ve made up my mind, besides as I’ve already suggested the game wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Biff gives a cheeky smile and appears to come out of his mood, “oh shucks,” he says.
“You know what I mean and if Bruce Menzies takes your place, there defiantly would be trouble.”
“Menzies won’t be playing.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Bruce Menzies has been seconded to play for Emerald Creek.”
“How do you know that?”
“Bill Collins the Emerald Creek captain is a mate of Ron and said so during a visit last weekend.”
By now they have caught up with the others and are by the water.
Luke and Wayne have cast their lines while Brownie fiddles with his kit bag.
“What are you searching for Brownie?” Wayne asks.
“Hooks I’ve forgotten to bring the flaming hooks.”
“Here you go, have some of mine,” Wayne offers.
“Some fisherman,” Luke scoffs.
“That looks like a good spot over there,” Barry points towards a stand of shady trees hanging over the water. More to reason his choice is to be away from the expected banter he suggests frightens the fish.
“Michael rejects the offered hooks.”
“Aren’t you fishing Brownie?” Grady asks.
“I wouldn’t mind a beer.”
“It’s a little early for me.”
“I wasn’t offering you one Greedy.”
Barry hears Michael’s request and calls back;
“Mick, you know where the icebox is but go easy were going through them like tap water.”
Moments later Luke releases a squeal.
“Flaming girl,” Michael comments.
“I’ve hooked on – feels like a real beaut’.”
The fish is landed and of a fair size.
Thud;
The fish is dispatched from life.
“What kind is it?” Wayne asks.
“A fish,” Luke laughs.
“It’s an inland Jungle Perch,” Barry offers from his superior knowledge of most things country.
More fishing and two more Perch both hooked by Luke.
The others appear bored as it takes a peaceful nature to sit by a river for hours on end without result.
Barry notices the frustration; he glances upwards towards the sun’s position.
“Almost lunchtime I would say, he suggest, “and I don’t like the look of those clouds over to the east.”
Lines are brought out of the water and once again in single file they return to their camp.
Luke is quick in gutting his three fish before putting them to ice among the remaining beer supply.
They will be just dandy for tonight’s dinner,” Luke suggests.
“Dandy,” Michael mimics.
“Yes dandy, Mick have you got a problem with that?”
“Come on girls be nice we’re not on the football field now,” Barry warns.
Michael is laughing;
“No, Brownie hasn’t a problem with dandy,” Michael responds in the first person.
After a light lunch and more beer than the middle of the day should allow it becomes siesta time but for Grady Saturday afternoon is usually one of activity, if there wasn’t a game or training, David would make sure Grady’s services were well acquired.
Firstly a large lawn to be mowed low almost to non-existence, while fighting the ageing mower to hold it power.
Dad we need a new motor mower, Grady often suggested.
You call yourself a mechanic then you fix it and I don’t mean leave it aside in bits like you did the toaster.
Doing so may encourage you to buy a new one, had been Grady’s thought.
And once the lawn is done, the shed needs a tidy.
Also your mother says the sink is blocked again.
Tidying the shed wasn’t too bad as David’s fastidious ways didn’t allow much out of place and there was always his father’s pornography stash, unlike his brother, Grady was careful to leave the magazines as they were found and most definitely without stains.
I don’t know what your father does in the precious shed of his, Karen would ask.
Grady would remain silent although he wondered why a man with sexual entertainment on tap, would wish for a paper sex aide; possible the adage is true being variety is the spice of life, followed by the grass is greener on the far side of the fence.
Some of the ladies within those pages were well stacked with sex appeal.
Not to mention the men, most of whom would embarrass a donkey.
Lunch is well settled with only Luke returning to his fishing, Michael is complaining about the level of the beer supply, while the others lounge about in pensive mood.
“I’m going to the Emerald Creek pub for more beer,” Michael exclaims.
No one comments.
“Who’s coming?”
No one offers.
Moments later the old sedan is heading out.
It’s a slow twenty minute drive along a rough bush track therefore Michael should be gone for at least an hour; even longer if he gets drinking with mates.
Grady remains full of pep, he starts conversation with Biff concerning what they could do during the coming year seeing they had given away the game.
“There’s the cricket,” Biff says.
“That takes care of a couple of months.”
“Isn’t your uncle a ringer working cattle on Forest Home Station?”
“Mark is the head stockman.”
“Isn’t Mark our age?”
“Twenty four I think, Grandma Olson had him late in life.”
“We could go west and do some cattle work.”
Biff’s suggestion lacked certainty.
“Can you ride a horse?” Grady asks although hopeful Biff is joking.
“I can ride a bicycle; I guess a horse is like a bike instead made of flesh and bone.”
“And it bites and can toss you to the ground.”
“My old bike didn’t bite but was good at tossing; I can’t recall how many times I came a cropper.”
Grady laughs;
“What’s got your funny Grady?”
“Lewis is good at tossing. Like you I can ride a bicycle,” Grady admits.
“That fucks that idea.”
Biff’s suggestion was never serious while by his attitude he remained in a mood that commenced with a night’s sleeping on rough ground inside the humidity of the tent.
“I’m gonna’ go for a walk – do you want to come?” Grady suggests.
“Where?”
“Up river a bit.”
“You go – I’ll catch you up.”
“That meant no.”
“I guess it does.”
As Grady set out Barry lifts his weary head, “you be careful,” he quietly says, “and don’t get lost we don’t want to spend the rest of the weekend looking for you.”
“I’m only going to follow the river for a bit.”
“Be careful near the falls, the rocks can be slippery.”
“Barry you worry too much, besides I’m not going anywhere near the falls.”
Worrying was Barry’s way, he may only be a year senior to the next but that matter of months appeared to bring on responsibility.
Soon the sound of the waterfall is far behind, replaced by the noisy chatter of rainbow lorikeets feeding on the bottle-brush callistemon flowersgrowing along both side of the water. It is a hot lazy afternoon with the scent of the flowering bottle-brush strong on the slight breeze taking Grady’s thoughts far from camping, the football, even beyond the approaching cricket season. It is Biff who controls Grady’s thoughts and what is making him moody. True Biff often had tendency to turn to mood and is never one for explaining but since he dumped Trish the moods had intensified.
‘Possibly he will leave town.’
‘What then?’
Grady quickly dismisses the thought as losing Biff would be like losing half of self.
Ahead there is a slight rocky rise with a flat surface.
Grady climbs the slight incline and sits, he is now above the callistemon and the lorikeets are more visible with flashes of orange and blue feathers amongst the red of the callistemon flowers.
Some distance off to the east a hint of white smoke rises lazily into the cloudless sky.
‘Bushfire,’ Grady immediately brings to mind bringing on a measure of concern, although late in the season it wasn’t uncomment to have bushfires even during the wet. Also with so much long dry grass about it wouldn’t be very safe where they set up their camp.
Grady remains interested in the rise of smoke.
It is light in colour and lethargic, besides it appears to be lacking the ubiquitous circling of crows and hawks that often hover above bushfires searching for anything escaping the flames.
‘It is more like chimney smoke,” he thinks.
‘But who, there isn’t any farms this far in, the land is too rocky and the soil poor.’
Curiosity brings Grady down from his perch and across the narrowness of the creek. Here the water is ankle deep with many stepping stones.
Almost across the creek he slips, falling arse first into the water.
‘Bugger!’
Nothing is hurt but his pride.
‘Barry was right the rocks are slippery.’
‘And now I’m soaked through.’
Grady completes his crossing believing the heat of the day would soon dry his clothes as he heads in the direction of the smoke.
Not far from where Grady had crossed over, the creek takes a wide arch through a number of small hillocks before turning back on itself, so the distance to the smoke is no more than half a mile. Eventually Grady comes upon a clearing where beside the curve in the river he spies a corrugated iron and slab hut with what appears to be a small kitchen garden containing mostly weeds. About is the scattering of old household goods and farming equipment that on day may be of some use, instead became the harbour of a multitude of lizards and snakes.
‘I hate snakes,’ Grady thinks as he eyes the scattering of junk.
He gives an involuntary shudder as he moves on.
At first, except for the smoke, the hut appears deserted and the kitchen garden wasted then out of the patch of weeds and rising like a puppet on a string stands a tall withered old man, wearing nothing but pink rubber kitchen gloves and a straw hat – not disregarding a pair of worn out boots with his toes bare to the ground.
The man appears surprised as their eyes interlock.
“Are you lost lad?” the man calls.
He is a sight, his body a beanpole, the hat almost falling from his head and the gloves beaming like a surrealistic beacon helping to distract from the swinging of his low hanging scrotum surpassing his appendage by at least two inches.
“Not lost, a mob of us from the football club are camped down by the falls,” Grady answers.
“So you thought you would make my day miserable?”
“Not at all – I’ll move on and leave you to your gardening.”
“You are here now; the kettle is on, come inside out of this flaming heat.”
Grady enters the hut behind the man.
The hut consists of one room with an adobe earth floor, the corrugated iron walls are peppered with nail holes from where the sun sends long shafts of brightness through the dust to the floor.
The furnishing is limited. Table, a chair, a stand with a tub for washing, a fireplace its chimney created from crushed termite mounds. Not to exclude the bed, consisting of a pile of what could be considered as bedding thrown into one corner.
I think I know you,” the man suggests.
He hasn’t yet introduced himself and by his attitude hasn’t intention in doing so.
“No milk,” the man admits without apology.
‘I don’t like black coffee,’ Grady thinks.
“Black will do,” Grady agrees.
Two chipped and badly stained enamel pannikins are on a side bench with a number of pewter plates and an old pickle jar containing an assortment of cutlery.
“Sit yourself,”
Grady’s eyes fall on the single chair.
“That log should suffice a small arse like yours.” The man points to a sawn stump off to one side.
Grady obliges.
The man unscrews a large bottle of Nescafe coffee.
At least it smells like coffee although so ancient it had almost congealed from the humidity.
‘I hate Nescafe,’ Grady thinks.
‘Oh well at least it isn’t Pablo.’
The man spoons two into one, a single into the other. He pours boiling water over the mud like substance then offers Grady the mug holding a teaspoon that almost stood upright in the brew.
“Sorry I’m also outa’ sugar until my next trip to town.”
The man remains naked and by his attitude has no intention in covering.
Grady finds the stranger’s nakedness disconcerting, and even if he doesn’t wish to gaze, the long grey hairy appendage with the low swing scrotum remains distracting.
“Does my nakedness bother you lad?”
“I suppose I’m not accustomed to nakedness around the house.
“I don’t get many visitors so there isn’t need for any dress sense, besides it saves washing and the clothes last longer.”
“No worries,” Grady replies while attempting to keep his gaze somewhere else
“Then,” the man singularly utters as he wraps what appears to be a gingham table cloth around his midriff.
The wrap has a large burn hole at the least convenient position.
Happy?” he asks.
Grady smiles and takes a cautious sip from his brew.
‘This must be the worse coffee I’ve ever had the misfortune to taste,’ Grady thinks.
‘I suppose I’ll have to drink some to be sociable.’
“Yes I know you lad,” the man suggests.
Grady is waiting.
“You’d be David Dowie’s lad.”
“Yes I’m Grady, do you know my father?”
“More so your grandfather, he was a right mean bastard.”
“Oh!”
“I didn’t intend to insult you lad. I only say it as he was.”
“No matter, dad often says the same about grandad.”
The man gives a grin;
“Your father isn’t much better and he was a dreadful half-back.”
“Did you play with Dad?”
“For one season until my knee buggered up, he was also a bully on the field.”
“He does have his moments,” Grady partly agrees.
“Anyway enough of that, how’s the football going?”
“You know I play?”
“I never miss a game. I ride my old bicycle into town just to watch you and young Brian Bastian play; it is as if the two of you can think to each other, even if the rest of the team is crap.”
Grady doesn’t mention he and Biff are leaving the club, “thank you for the complement,” he says, “It must take you ages to get into town on a bicycle.”
“I leave before sunup, get there in time for the game, have a couple of beers with some old mates, then after the game pedal home, I’m usually back by ten or so. It’s a right bugger over the rough track if the moon isn’t up and you have to watch for flaming snakes, they like to soak up what’s left of the heat from the track’s surface.”
‘Snakes,’ Grady gives a slight shiver.
‘I hate snakes.’ He recalls an earlier thought.
The afternoon passes without knowledge of the stranger’s name.
A coffee top-up is offered.
A graceful decline is given.
The stranger opens his storybook a little.
There was a time when he played for the local team but suffered a football injury when a war encouraged him to fight for his country but he was deemed medically unfit. He then stressed willingness to serve, even more from the attitude of his friends, declaring him to be a coward and was issued with awhite feather. Feeling somewhat dejected he departed company with the town, thus becoming a virtual hermit.
Another offer of coffee; it appears even as a hermit the man craved a little company.
Grady again declines the offer of coffee;
“I should be going soon,” he says.
“I had a dog once,” the stranger reveals with a measure of regret,” he was an ugly tick riddled stray with an ear missing and I called him dog.”
“You called it dog – why?”
“Dunno’ really possibly influenced by my mother having a parrot she called bird and a cat called cat.”
“What happened to your dog called dog?”
“He buggered off into the scrub chasing some stray bitch and never returned. He loved killing snakes and bringing them home as a gift, possibly the mongrel took on one that fort back.
‘Again the mention of snakes,’ Grady thinks.
“Then you never married?” Grady asks.
“When I was a young man with the war was on, what girl would have a coward?”
“But you were rejected by the army, that wasn’t your doing.”
“True but as most of our men were away fighting the girls fell all over the Yankee soldiers based up on the Tablelands, with their confidence and pockets full of money, offering silk stockings and chocolate. I had nothing to offer, besides the fact I was deemed medically unfit did sit well with the ladies.”
Eventually Grady rises to his feet;
“I should be on my way; my mates will wonder what has happened to me. I’ve enjoyed talking with you and if I’m not being rude, what is your name?”
“I’ll see you out,” the man says without offering his name.
The man walks with Grady to the end of the small clearing holding the hut and failing vegetable patch where he observes for quite some time as Grady disappears back into the scrub.
The cloth with the burn comes away once Grady is gone from sight.
Grady had become so involved with the man’s life history he had lost all track of time, possibly by now his mates may have formed a search party but as he approached the camp he was forced to realise his absence didn’t amount to much, finding Barry alone lounging about in the late afternoon’s humidity.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” Barry asks.
“I discovered an old man about a mile or so up river living in a hut.”
Coming away from his afternoon’s dip in the pool Wayne Nelson joins the conversation, “someone living out this way, I thought it was too remote for farming.”
“That would be the old hermit, Arthur Cullen, he’s been living rough out this way for twenty years or more, I’m surprised he is still alive,” Barry informs.
“Where’s Biff?” Grady asks.
“He’s having a swim, or more to point annoying Luke’s fishing.” As Wayne speaks Michael Brown is spied returning through the scrub driving somewhat erratically.
Michael pulls up close by and staggers from the vehicle. If he were a sailor it would be fair to say he was three sheets to the wind, having difficulty staying upright without help from the vehicle’s bodywork. How he managed to keep to the track on his return is a mystery, although a good amount of shrubbery appears caught in the front bumper suggesting a number or near hits along the track.
Eventually he manages to open the rear door;
“Would one of you jokers give a hand with this lot?”
Wayne approaches, “what have you got?”
“Two slabs of beer and I will pass the hat around when I sober enough to find the flaming thing.”
Wayne collects one of the slabs;
“Did you get more ice?”
“Bugger the ice, anyone got a coffee on?”
There is always water on the boil and Barry quickly makes Michael a strong brew hoping it may take the edge of his condition.
Michael accepts the coffee and slumps down near the camp fire.
Knowing Michael’s constitution he would become quiet for a time before taking up the challenge again.
“You alright Mick?” Barry asks.
“Of course I’m alright; just give me a moment to catch my breath.”
“There my friends,” Barry loudly exclaims, “is the making of an alcoholic, or dead in some car accident of his own doing.”
“Aw’ Bazza, fuck you,” Michael slurs.
“Right Grady you find the others and I think it’s my turn to cook.”
Barry is smiling as he turns back to Michael;
“Hey Brownie; how would you like a couple of greasy sausages for your dinner?”
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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