Berembed to Narrandera 2011

 I'm cheating a little, because I'm including my original long trip on the river in 2011.

A big black snake was lying close to the water on an old gum tree trunk. It did not move as I paddled past. This and a collection of rainbow tree eaters are two of the memorable moments from my first long canoe trip on the Marrambidya (Murrumbidge). 

I was living in Leeton at the time, working as the area’s inaugural Regional Arts Development Officer, and in the afternoons I would often go out to the river and go for a paddle. I had an inflatable canoe which though slow was very portable. I would paddle for an hour upstream against the strong current, and then turn and be back at the car in ten minutes.

Eventually I grew weary with the job and I applied for a residency in St Louis, Senegal. Before I left the Riverina, however, there was something I wanted to do. Perhaps a macabre thing though. On the Murrumbidgee upstream of Narrandera there is an island, called either Murdering Island or Massacre Island. It is the site of a massacre of 70 people of the Narrungderra clan, the local Wiradjuri people. Their population had been decimated by settlement, by disease brought by European settlers, and clashes with the settlers. It is recorded that 'The pastoralists at that time experienced trouble from the blacks, who used to spear cattle. So troublesome were they that the whites determined to deal with them in a summary manner. The whites drove the natives on to an island below Buckingbong and wrought such havoc in their ranks that the Island is even now known as "Murdering Island". It is estimated that 70 Aboriginal people. There was apparently only one survivor.

I had asked a friend where the island was, and she said it was fifteen river bends upstream from the boat ramp ten kilometres west of Narrandera. Half a river bend is about a kilmoetre and river distance is three times direct distance.  I felt that this would be a difficult paddle upstream and decided to come down the river instead. My friend said this was possible and she had done it previously in a day. I left my car at the boat ramp in Narrandera near the bridge and my friend drove me to Berembed Weir. It was hot. In the low 40s. And a weekend. There were small fishing boats on the river as I paddle west.

I would say hi. And the conversation then would be:

“Where did you put in?”

“Berembed.”

“And where are you going?

“Narrandera.”

“Shit.” They would say.

After the fifth such conversation it dawned on me that I had made a mistake and that the distance was greater than I thought and had been informed.

I sat in the water and thought about my situation. And then I thought, it doesn’t matter, it’s a nice day, cooler on the water than anywhere else, I just need to suck it up and go for it.”

One of the fishermen had told me the island was about ten kilometres past Old Man Creek, a major anabranch that joined the river, so I had something to look out for.

I settled into the task. The water was a muddy brown colour, and often the paddocks ran right to the edge of the banks. I passed cows and sheep who had gone down to the water to drink and hide in the shade the banks afforded. The odd farm dog came to bark at my passing. After the fishermen though, I didn’t see anyone.

There were many wood ducks, that would swim ahead, and other water birds that would rise, begrudgingly into the air, always with a call and a squirt of bird shit.

The only thing I had to look out for was snags, of which there were many. You could usually hear them as the water gurgled and roiled around them, if the branches stuck out of the water, or see the swirling patterns they left if they were submerged.

It was an irony, however, that people who ran canoe tours along this section of the river had marked every kilometre, by nailing half-metre high numbers to trees. But they counted up. So I could tell far I had paddle but not how far I had to go.

The trees along the banks were mostly river redgums, and river oaks, with many introduced species, propagated by the water. There were willows, poplars, privet, palms and trees of heaven. The latter was common around the point where people had pumps in the river, perhaps spread by vehicles.

As the afternoon wore on my arms began to tire. I felt like I had no option than to continue. In hindsight I realise there was a road not too far from either side of the river, to which I could have walked to and flagged down a lift. But the heat of the day meant I was loathe to leave the rivers.

The numbers on the trees counted up 20, 25, 30…

There were many little creek gullies running in from the banks so it was hard to tell whether I had passed Old Man Creek, but eventually when I saw it, there was no mistaking it. Which meant I could count the ten kilometres downstream.

When I came to the island, it was nondescript. It looked like any other section of bank. I was too tired to think about stopping, and as with all the river, the banks are steep and muddy so it is no easy thing to stop anywhere you like. I floated past with a vague sense of achievement, somewhat diminished by the thought of the coming fifteen kilometres to the boat ramp, and another ten to my car.

A kilometre later, I reached the boat ramp. It would have been possible to paddle upstream to it after all. I quietly cursed my friend. As I had stupidly not left my car here, I had to keep going. I was exhausted. The sun was about to go down and it was getting harder to see the snags. I paddled past the red cliffs near the Koala Sanctuary, and past second beach, where a few years later I would try to drown myself during an art performance, getting caught in this same canoe on snags, in the dark.

And then past first beach. It was just on dark when I pulled up at the boat ramp near the old Brewery. I had paddled non-stop for 9 hours. I put my foot down into the water , feeling the mud between my toes, and I stood up. And promptly fell down, in the shallows, too exhausted to stand.

I sat there in the water for 10 minutes and then pulled the canoe out of the river, deflated it, and stowed it in the car. It was a half hour drive back to my house in Leeton, and I once there I just locked the car, dropped my wet clothes on the floor and crawled into bed.