A small croc sunning himself downstream of the crossing
After a brief stint of man handling the boat we started up the electric trolling motor and began flicking lures into the likely looking snags. After a few minutes the fact we didn't have a fish in the boat was surprising, after an hour or so it was perplexing, but as we reached the top of the pool where it became too narrow to navigate in the boat the mood was dire. It was very hot, still and the water had been so perfect but we’d caught nothing. It was picturesque and fantastic. The water looked so inviting and was a fantastic temperature. We'd have all loved to have jumped in, but the threat of crocs was too overwhelming. There were kangaroos and wallabies lying up in the shade at every bend and the heat seemed to even be taking its toll on them.
In a shallow stretch I’d had a small barra charge out and take two swipes at my lure and shortly after, dad landed another small one, but that was it. We sat and ate our sandwiches, wandered a short way along the bank looking for a wallaby to shoot, but nobody had much conviction. It was a new low point for the trip. The thing is though, that our own expectations ruined what should have been an awesome trip. The three of us were together, in some magic country, miles from anyone and with a real possibility of landing the biggest barra of our lives at any moment. Being Wilkes' though, we just focused on the negatives and let ourselves become frustrated and disappointed. Did I mention it was hot yet?
A small barra that jumped on the old man's lure
On the motor back to the crossing dad did get a good run while trolling, and quickly thereafter scored a catfish, but that bite was squashed when he handed the “hot” lure over to me and we increased the speed measurably. I’m not sure why we did that but dad thought the lures ran better. Although I beg to differ I held my tongue. Oh, did I mention it was hot! We slipped the boat up onto the trailer without incident while the sun beat down on us. You here of people saying the pavement was hot enough to fry an egg, well the concrete on the crossing was hot enough to cook a turkey (IN ABOUT FIVE MINUTES). It was a quite trip back to the donga and I feel tensions almost boiled over, but somehow it blew over.
Paul headed over to the store at the caravan park and while he was buying a pack of cards for mum to use, he got a tip from the lady that runs the place. Apparently the Albert river runs down behind the town dump and the locals get fish there with lures. So, Paul and I decided to head down there and at least give it a look. Our latest theory on the lack of fish was that we all had cameras and video stuff so we decided to forego that stuff this time, just in case. At one of the spots two blokes, one white and one black sat with their hand lines out. They looked local and that was a good sign. Back at the other spot the almost full moon was up and a redness was beginning to show above the horizon. The spot wasn’t much to look at, being just a deeper bend along a shallow featureless stretch of the Albert River. There were a few snags and a gentle back eddy was formed but nothing eye catching.
I wandered down with a lure and three casts in a nice little barra (about 55-60cm) jumped on. He came out of the water, went on a brief run and then there was a big swirl. I saw that horrible grey and a tail that could only be one thing. Seconds later I pulled to the bank the head of a barra. The gills were still going and the shark was still circling to get the rest of its plunder, so I through the hapless head to its miserable plight. There was a fair amount of movement around and a few more casts revealed another roll but that was it. We couldn’t stay long as Paul need to use some of the remaining light to chase bait in the cast net but the short session relieved a little of the tension. Perhaps we were on the upswing.
Paul and I went down to China wall to rustle up bait. My job was to shine the torch and carry the bucket as Paul did all the work. This trend was definitely something that was eating at me, and I'm not sure if Paul and dad took over doing things because it's in their personalities or because they don't trust me to do any of it. I didn't want to impose my way of doing things on Paul's trip (although Paul didn't seem to mind dad's input) but it would have been nice if they'd delegated some of the responsibilities. If they were doing everything to show me a good time I certainly appreciate it, but I'd have liked to have been able to help out as well. Still, at this point it was best just to go with the flow and say nothing because everyone was at wits end and it wasn't worth ruining the trip over.
We swung by the donga and ate our snags and baked beans, then headed out to the main bridge that crosses the Albert River on the way in to Burketown. Nobody was there, a big full moon was high in the sky and our moods were quietly optimistic. Shortly after being there I had something white hit my lure, then a screaming run went racing off under the bridge. From the fight it was almost certainly a dirty big ray but we’ll never no as I busted it off after a long struggle. After that things went quite for a while. Dad’s rod had a brief run and then I had a huge barra hit my lure, shake his head violently a few times and swim back into the dark. Paul managed a couple catfish, a decent queenie and some regular bites sitting right on the bridge pile-ons.
At one point we had a car come and pull up right next to ours and a youngish guy stepped out and strolled down towards up. He obviously had no idea of how things are done out here and wandered right up to Paul expecting a sociable welcome. He proceeded to tell us in his American accent how he’d caught what he thought was a mackerel at the bridge the other day but when Paul showed some sceptism he pulled out his digital camera to reveal a queenfish. Upon being informed we had baits strung out all along the bank he headed to the other side of the bridge, he had a few casts and pissed off wishing us a “goodnight gentlemen” sentiment as he left. I think he was a bit miffed at the reception he’d received but he’d have gotten much worse had he pulled up so close to real locals!
Another indication that we were in a remote setting came when a car came racing down the highway at very high speed, turned around behind us and sped back across the bridge towards town. Moments later another came did the same but the two cars met up then proceeded to park rear end to rear end in the middle of the bridge and turn the engines off. I should remind you this one lane bridge is the only road into Burketown (except west towards the aboriginal mission of Doomagee). Between the two cars there was probably about ten fellas, all young blokes. We'd heard stories about trouble for white fellas like us with groups of the local black fellas so we got a bit nervous. Dad and I sat on the far bank while Paul was stranded out on a bridge gurder, just out of view of the fellas. Although he had no conviction about it, dad slipped back into the shadows near the truck (where the .22 was) just to keep an eye on things and stay out of view. As it turns out, the guys had just come down to look at the river to decided if it was worth fishing and when one of them peered over the side and saw Paul he nearly died of fright. They turned out to be good fellas and chatted away with Paul for a while. They elected not to fish and from the sounds of things there might have been some chroming (sniffing paint cans) going on. They blocked that bridge for over an hour, well aware that the chances of other traffic was very limited, and they were right. It was fantastic to be fishing in such a remote place.We sat well into the wee hours of the morning. The moon was up and almost full, there were no bugs and it was relatively cool. A relaxing evening but the trip is still overshadowed by the ever-present lack of barra. It is the 800 pound gorilla standing in the room that nobody is talking about. Perhaps our luck is about to change but it doesn’t look good. Tomorrow night is the full moon.
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