Gone Paddling

The day dawns with a totally different feel to yesterday. The rain pitter patters on the roof, and passing showers drum out the hum of the generator. As we get dressed, as we eat breakfast, as we pack the cars and wash the dishes there is an unmistakable undercurrent in conversations. In every sentence, every word, there is a whisper of anticipation. Did the rain cause the river to rise? By how much? Will the gorge be "rocking"? Will the intricate patterns of the dislocation and graveyard rapids turn into wild flushing playgrounds?

On the way to the put in, Sabina sizes up Russell's van. "Mama, Russell doesn't have a house", she says. "He's got a car house".

The boys prepare to put in at the Bundarra river bridge. The water is certainly moving right along. I find a stick and throw it in, trying to show Sabina where Papa will paddle, and how fast he will be out of sight. The stick is too small and we lose sight of it in the first wave. I throw a bigger stick. Sabina watches it float down in silence.

We turn back to watch the paddling preparations and I explain the equipment to Sabina. "Cag to keep dry, deck to keep water out of the boat, vest to float, helmet". She's fascinated by the vest. So many buckles and fasteners, so many trinkets to play with. The boys show her that there's even a whistle.

Papa puts in, and Sabina insists on sitting in the boat with him. She has visions of sitting between his legs, while he paddles into the middle of the river. Pete and I look at each other, and Sabina quickly ends up back on the bank despite the protests. Papa paddles out, and surfs the nearby wave. The wave washes over the front of his boat. Over his deck. Sabina is speechless.
The boys look at us, wave, and float gracefully down the river. Within seconds they are out of sight.

The next group of paddlers arrive. Peak hour traffic! We look at them playing in the wave. "When I am like Papa, I will have a purple boat", anounces Sabina, "And I'll have a blue boat". "Why do you need two boats?" I ask. "For when one gets dirty". Of course. We watch the paddlers float down the river. Suddenly a wave of longing grips me and I jump up and down on the spot "I want to go paddling, I want to go paddling". Sabina holds my hand like a loving parent. The rain starts in earnest. "But where's Papa?" quizzes Sabina. I open my mouth to reply, change my mind, and just smile.

We jump in the car. We wave a farewell at the Blue Duck as we drive by, then we're back on the winding road to Omeo. Memories of Winter Classics return to me once more. The Mr Men team - we won our division that day. But out of a team of eight only two turned up to the presentation. They got up on the podium and hung a sign "Gone paddling".

On the last downhill before Omeo I stop by the side of the road and point out the skewbald horse in the paddock. "There Sabina. Isn't that Rain?". She looks on carefully. "Yes Mama, that's Rain. Hello Rain! Hello Rain!", she waves madly through the window. Rain looks at us, then returns to her mid-morning snooze.

We hang out together in Omeo for a while. Cappucino for me, babycino for Sabina. Rain stops and sun shines brightly. Art gallery, a visit to the playground, a walk in the park, where Sabina skips and runs carefree along the path singing praises. Then we drive back to Hinnomunjie bridge to pick up the boys.

I stiffen when I see that they are already there and out of the water. Late again. But they greet us with joy and laughter, and dive into the esky for a can of Bourbon and cola. "We've been here for an hour" they chid. I stutter. They look at me half with pity, half with the zest of life. "It rocked", I hear.

While I make tuna dip, the kaleidoscope of colour that is paddling equipment, is packed away. The only colours that remain are Russell in his cycling gear, and the green green grass on the banks of the Mitta. We give Russell a warm farewell, and he cycles off to pick up his van. We glance back at the take out one more time, and we too are on our way.

The Blue Duck

Papa has gone to Omeo to paddle the Mitta Mitta gorge. We depart the farm, with the aim of joining him for dinner. It's a beautiful, sunny day, and we enjoy the drive through the Latrobe valley. I point out the old locomotive in Trafalgar and the tall smoking chimneys of Morwell. Sabina marvels at the train line, which runs alongside the freeway for most of the way.

At Sale we do a stop to watch the TTT Showjumping. Sabina has to pat every horse, and every dog, and she has to drink the obligatory iced chocolate. Then we're off to Bairnsdale. Sale, Bairnsdale, only half an hour between them, right? Only if you're travelling at a 130km/h. Sheesh! I look at the clock. We're running late.

At precisely 4:18pm we leave the Bairnsdale Shell and head for Omeo. Surely, it's just an hour to Omeo, right? Wrong! I pass the "OM 110" sign, and shift in my seat. "Sh ... sh ... sugar", I breathe, "we no longer have to make it to the 5pm pick up at Hinnomunjie, but at this rate, we won't even be at the Bluck Duck at 6!" I step on it, and overtake the truck. Sabina is asking a 1000 questions; I watch for forgotten turn off signs.

The road dips, I indicate and accelerate. "Mama, not so fast! I don't want to go fast! Mama!". I choose deafness and overtake four cars in one shot. Bruthen lies peacefully ahead. Sabina calms down and returns to the 1000 questions. "Sabina, Mama can't answer your questions right now. I'm looking for a turn off". Sabina's questions become louder in protest. The quiet town is littered with too many tourist friendly signs. Buchan caves this way, snow fields that way, caves this way, snow fields ... I take the turn off. Within metres we're in the quiet of the Australian bush at sunset.

I overtake the pancake house car with trailer, and keep eating the kilometres. It's been a while since I've driven a winding road at speed and the first few corners catch me out. "Wheee!" I say to Sabina. "Wheee!". I re-group on the straight, and take the next turn with a bit more professionalism. Our car is automatic, but I use the gears regardless. Third, second, third, drive. "Oh look Sabina, Mulocky Creek". Third, drive, third. "And here, Bulocky Creek", I point out every sign, every feature, everything except the speed. Drive, third, second, third, second, third, drive.

We hit the Tambo, and the road straightens. I pass the white Subaru. "Zilber car, Mama. Zilber", Sabina corrects me. Then we slow down for Ensay. The sun is edging lower and in addition to changing gears, I keep changing the position of my sun visor. Down, up, down. Use the hand to block out the sun. Then third, second, third, drive. We drive. Oh, boy, do we drive. I pass another car and think "you're being passed by another Mr Men support vehicle". But that was another time. Another life. Deep down, I laugh a mad man's laugh.

"Mama I'm tired". We pass through Swifts Creek. "I know, but Omeo is just over the top of that hill." It's true. Not far now. I stay focused, and at precisely 5:36pm we roll over the hill into Omeo. I stop at the T-intersection. "Look, Sabina, that's Spirit isn't it?" I point out the buckskin right in front of us. "Yes, Mama, it's Spirit". That's the only break we get.

I turn right and soon we're out of Omeo. At the Hinnomunjie bridge turn off I hesitate. I look at the clock, shake my head, the boys are probably enjoying happy our by now. We drive up the hill. "Look Sabina, there's Rain." (Rain is a horse from the Spirit movie). "Where Mama?" "I'll show you tomorrow." "Aha. Mama it's a long way." "Yes", I answer and re-focus on the corner. The road is narrower here, the edge perilous. "Mama I'm tired". "I know sweetie." "Mama, it's a long way". Well I guess it's better than a constant "are we there yet". "How about I put on the fixing song?". "Yeah!", the little voice cheers up for a second. Midnight Oil sings out. I take another corner. The music is lost on me. "Mama, it's a long way".

On another turn I glimpse the river, the rapids. Memories rush back. Time shifts. Henry is sitting next to me, and we're on our way to yet another Winter Classic change over. We pass the sweeping turn of the Black Duck. The road keeps winding. I remember passing another support crew. "You're being passed by another Mr Men support vehicle", I laughed then. I laugh now. That mad man's laugh. On the CD, Peter Garrett laugh's the same laugh. I shudder and return to the present.

The little settlement that is the Blue Duck Hotel comes into view. "Look Sabina, we're here. We're at the Blue Duck". "Is that the Blue Duck, Mama?". "Yes!". "Yay! We're here! We made it! We made it!", celebrates Sabina. I stop the car, and turn around "Did you think we were going to just keep driving forever?". "Yes, Mama".

We park in front of the log cabin. There is no sight of Russell's van. I grab some grapes, and a little hand, and head down to the pub. When I open the door the warm atmosphere hits me so hard I need to steady myself. I feel like a long lost daughter coming home. The white (or maybe silver) haired man smiles as he gives me the key to the cabin. "Are you with the paddling boys?", he asks. "Yes".

Sabina insists that we sit down at a table to eat the grapes. She sits, while I stand over her in anticipation. "You sit here", she points to a chair. Gladly. I take up her offer, just before my knees buckle underneath me. When the grapes are almost finished, we head back up to the cabin. The van rolls in. So does the lightening. Soon Sabina is being hoisted up by three happy paddlers.

Later on, we head back to the pub for dinner. A steak like that I haven't seen for a very long time. We drink beer and reminisce. The lightening gets closer and eventually the rain thunders on the tin roof.

Tuna Dip

1 small can of tuna in springwater
1 small container of philadelphia cheese spread
1 small onion, very finely chopped
juice of half a lemon

Mix the ingredients into a creamy consistency. Server with crackers and fresh vegetable sticks.

Sabina learnt the recipe in kindy. Larrah (our baby sitter) comes over. I leave the ingredients with her and go to ride my horse. By the time I come back the dip is made and almost fully eaten. I savour it with crackers. Delicious.

Fixing Song

We're off to Warragul to pick up Papa from the train station. A Midnight Oil CD is happily playing. "Mama, that's the fixing song". "The fixing song?", I echo, as we go around one bend, then another, then take the pot hole between the wheels. I listen to the distinct "bang bang bang" rhythm of the song. It does sound like a hammer with background clutter. "Clever little girl", I think to myself, as we bounce over a rise and wind down into a valley.

We pull up at the station a whisker before the train arrives, and we bound out of the car like two little kids, screaming and running. There's the train, there's Papa waving from the window in the second carriage. The doors open and a screaming running bundle of joy runs into Papa's outstretched arms. It's like this every week. So much joy.

We belt up, crack open our cans, and cruise back towards the ranch. "Papa, Mama is playing the fixing song", says the little voice from the back. "Yeah?", Papa sounds interested, "does it sound a bit like 'Bob the Builder'?". "Yes, on the scaffolding". Bob the Builder on scaffolding? What's going on here?

Well, it turns out that when the workmen (and all workmen are "Bob the Builder" in Sabina's eyes) on the scaffolding at Oma and Opa's play loud songs, which Oma dislikes, she says that they are "fixing" something. Hence the "fixing song". The little girl is spot on. Wish the adults could keep up.

The Wombat

It's late and we're on our way to the farm. Sabina is happily sleeping in her booster seat. As we arrive in our little village, all the houses are fast asleep. We turn onto our gravel road, and I cruise along gently. At the top of the big dipper I spot a dark shadow in the dip, and slam the breaks on. The change in momentum jolts Sabina awake. But she doesn't utter a word. We stop three metres away from the wombat. "Hrmmmmfff", he says as he gazes into the high beam. I turn my lights down, leaving only the glimmer of parking lights and wombat spotters. "Hrmmmfff" the wombat gazes at the big wombat of a car. Midnight Oil plays in the background. "Hrmmmfff" the wombat decides to seek the cover of tall grass by the side of the road. Lights back on, we drive on. At the letter box, I stop and glance at Sabina. "Did you see the wombat?" She nods.