 |
Surf Casting and Angling Club of W.A. (Inc.)
Jonahs Go Back to Kalbarri - June/July 1961. |
|||
 | | |||
|
|
|
Secundus, a past master of domestic diplomacy, was preparing mum an early morning "cuppa" when I arrived and having completed this worthy duty, he threw in the last of his gear and we were quickly on our way. Full of high hopes and most optimistic expectations, we turned into Victoria Ave and sped on our way. We had not proceeded very far however before Secundus raised his voice in violent protest and shouted "Hey, not in there, they won't be expecting us, we are not due until next year". In the darkness I had taken a wrong prong of a fork in the road and was heading for the gates of the Old Men's Home
Beating a hasty retreat, we were soon back on the right road and without any further misadventure arrived at the rendezvous in good time and were soon hastily packing the last of our gear into the Land Rover
I might diverge here for a moment to explain that Junior, our OIC logistics, had decided to replace our trusty "moonbuster" of last year with a vehicle which would provide more scope for his adventurous spirit, pander to his natural aversion to the exercise of walking, and impose upon his companions a condition of unending physical and mental anguish, from which he was able to derive infinite amusement.
With the impetuous enthusiasm of a small boy with the new toy, he had completely dismantled this mechanical wonder and working far into the night for weeks beforehand, had renewed, replaced, misplaced, displaced, rewound, unwound, re-ground, lost and found and fiddled around in general with everything he could lay hands on. To what end you might be able to judge as the story unfolds. As the crowning achievement and to match the resilience of the upholstery, he had had a steel canopy fitted. This was fastened with longish bolts, each one of which were situated with diabolical precision exactly in a position which would allow it to pierce neatly the skull of any unfortunate passenger suddenly flung skywards on the uneven surface, which was mostly where we were
As a special favour I was allocated the central seat. As is probably well known to you, the central portion of the floor of a Land Rover is completely occupied by large, roughly dome shaped structure not unlike a ship's binnacle. It houses the machinery which resolves the intricate problems relating to high range, low range, four wheels or no dice. From it protrude three metal levers of various lenghts. The very long one shifts the gears, a smaller one with a red knob decides, I believe, which gear range shall be used, while the third one performs some sort of liaison between the front and rear wheels.
From this, and the knowledge that Junior likes shifting gears the way "Panther" Payne likes telling an improbable yarn, you will readily realise that I was like one of those Russian dancers who sits on nothing and flings his legs around. At the end of 10 hours and 415 miles, I could have passed for the hunchback of Notre Dame. I was also suffering most painful and distressing anatomical abnormality which I regret I am unable to describing on these pages
Anyway off we shot to the cold storage depot where the bait had spent the night before becoming conditioned for its long haul north to the Murchison. It may be of some general interest if I relate briefly the manner in which we had our bait, consisting of 30 dozen scalies and 15 dozen mulies, prepared for the journey.
A large cardboard carton was cut down and reassembled in such a matter that a tea chest fitted into it with approximately a one inch space between the chest and carton on all four sides. The insulating material used was fibreglass in sheets about an inch or so in thickness and the width of the tea chest. A square of this material of suitable size was placed in the bottom of the carton and the chest stood upon it. A sheet of fibreglass was then inserted into the space between the chest and carton on each of the four sites, two of them being sufficiently long to fold over and completely enclose the top.
Our quantity of prefrozen bait fitted comfortably into the chest and arrived at its condition in perfect condition. On arrival it was transferred immediately to a local freezer from which we were able to draw supplies as needed.
Having loaded the bait into the space in the vehicle left for that purpose we were on our way by 7:30 on a lovely mild sunny day. Despite some delays between Moora and Three Springs occasioned by the loss of oil pressure and later by the collapse of a spark plug, a portion of which apparently jacked up a valve and deprived us of the use of a cylinder, we made very good time and arrived at Geraldton at 2:15 pm. After a snack and some final shopping including a refuel, we were on the road again by 3:00 and arrived at Kalbarri at 5:20 pm
Having deposited our bait at the freezer, we quickly repaired to our quarters and after a meal, the need of which we had been feeling for some considerable time past, repaired to bed.
In the morning we were shocked to discover that the water in the river bore the appearance of a good rich, thick pea soup, and that the ocean in the vicinity of the mouth was similarly contaminated. This was due to some heavy falls of rain experienced during the previous weeks. Since such conditions had been prevalent for some time past, and were likely to persist for some little time to come, we were filled with dire forebodings which were not allayed by the stories of fish famine we were to hear as the day wore on
Pretending to be undaunted by all these ill omens, and kidding ourselves that determination and tenacity could overcome all obstacles, we sallied forth. As the mud and a strong gusty northeasterly wind ruled out Chinaman's Rock as a likely spot to exploit, we repaired to the Blue Hole, where within five minutes the old familiar cry rent the air, "I've got one" "I've got one, a big one too, don't think I'll be able to land him here" and so on.
However what Secundus lacked in technique and confidence, we were able to provide in good measure by way of advice and encouragement. To the accompaniment of prayers, lamentations, unprofessional language and conflicting advice from the onlookers, a splendid tailor of 9 3/4 pounds was eventually landed rather skillfully on a rocky ledge, from which it was smartly plucked on the end of gaff by Junior.
We fished this hole for a little longer hoping to raise more of these monsters, but the incoming tide and high seas made conditions difficult and soon we had to retire to our old haunt further along the beach where Secundus got another nice tailor and I caught two smaller ones.
During the next three days which were bitterly cold with the northeasterly continuing to blow very hard and eventually swinging to the north-west and increasing to almost gale force, we flogged every fishable piece of water between Chinaman's and the Bluff. But apart from a nice seven pound tailor caught by Junior using a bottom rig, our efforts were fruitless.
Being a thoughtful type with a logical mind, Secundus figured the change of bait might bring a change of fortune. So fastening his rig into Junior's boiler suit, he did his best to hurl him some 30 yards into the water from the Bluff. That old "mulie" proved however to be too much for the "step down" rod which snapped like a carrot. Fortunately I was some distance away while this interesting experiment was taking place so am unable to relate the conversation which ensued.
By Wednesday the weather had moderated considerably, and with a light southwesterly blowing we decided to start today's operations on Chinaman's Rock where the water was reasonably clean as the mud had moved upstream with the incoming tide. This proved to be our best day, and during the morning we bagged 15 tailor, none of which however what was very big. Of this total Junior and I had contributed 9, and in an endeavour to protect them from the attention of the local blowflies, always enormously big and extremely active, Junior placed the bag containing the fish in a small rocky pool near the water's edge. It was not long before we had the mortification of seeing this bag being carried away on the crest of the inevitable big wave and the fish spilled into the channel and were lost forever.
By the following day the wind had backed to the northeast again and although the water was little rough, conditions appeared to be reasonably good. During the course of the day we worked over the coast from Chinaman's to the Bluff and for the day's effort could show only four tailor, of which one caught by Junior was a beauty of over 7 pounds.
While we were having tea, a chap from a nearby cottage came in with a bag over his shoulder and a request to borrow our scales. He had six lovely tailor ranging from 5 to 11 pounds, caught during a short interlude while taking his wife and sister in law for a run to the Bluff, from the most unlikely looking piece of water, on the bottom too. He bemoaned the loss of a much larger one which had broken him up. We were prevented from committing hari-kiri only by the timely arrival of Bob Pym and his wife who were on an extended fishing honeymoon.
On Friday which was intensely cold and with a strong northeasterly blowing we covered the same ground as the previous day but had nothing to show for our labour. During the night the wind increased to near gale force and it rained like blazes.
To continue further in chronological order would largely be a recapitulation of what I have already described, except that subsequently our best of a long chain of very bad days yielded only nine very ordinary tailor.
If one was prepared to brave the very intense cold of the evenings and remain up until 2 am, some nice black bream up to three pounds and small kingfish up to the same weight could be taken in the river near the mouth. We tried this sport for three nights or so but conditions were so wretched and miserable that we preferred to go to bed.
Our neighbour who had previously shamed us with his bag of tailor had spent the day on a cray boat and presented us with half a dozen of these delectable crustaceans which had been collected during the cruise. On seeing these, Secundus gave the great whoop of joy and shouted "now I'll give you boys something you will always remember". How right he was. "I'll make you curried crayfish mornay". Notwithstanding that Junior had already peeled and prepared a great pile of vegetables in expectation having a stew, Secundus set about addressing himself to the task of creating his lucillian masterpiece.
Now when the maestro becomes so inspired, order, sanity and peace go by the board. Just to cook six crays on kerosene stove in the utensils normally provided in a remote holiday hut requires the exercise of considerable skill patience and organisation. Simultaneously to convert them into a curried mornay under these conditions would call for the genius of honours graduate of the Cordon Bleu. Unfortunately Secundus possesses none of these rare accomplishments.
Very soon, too many crays in too little water were causing an overflow of brown frothy scum to cascade on the kerosene flame and produce a most unappetising aroma. The pandemonium which ensued when it came to extracting the meat from its horny housing, the sweeping aside of the legs, shells and innards to make way on the small table for the blending of the other ingredients, the imperious demand for butter, the argument as to whether white source calls for plain or self raising or cornflour, the display of rage and language when it was discovered that no milk was mixed, just at the moment when Cookie had combined the flour and melted butter into the exact smooth consistency that perfection demands, needed to be seen to be believed.
The sublime pinnacle of this act of necromancy was reached when the moment came to introduce the curry into the witch's brew. The recipe called for one dessert spoon full of curry powder. Not being a full bottle on spoons, Secundus pulled out the biggest tablespoon he could find and said, suiting his action to his words "better put in two of these just to make sure. I like it a little hot myself". Talk about hot. Radioactive fallout would be chilly in comparison. Each mouthful was like a gallon of molten fish hooks. Junior was crook in the guts for three days and the saucepan got ulcers. If you would care to hear an inspired burst of invective and picturesque obscenity, just ask the social organiser if he proposes to include "Curried Crayfish Vesuvius" in the menu of the next annual social. The experiment was never repeated and we never got the hut really clean again.
Our pleasant but largely barren sojourn eventually came to an end, and early in the morning of Friday July 7th, we were on our way home. As usual our return journey was not without incident. On this occasion although we failed to attract the attention of the traffic authorities, we had our horror moments.
The settlement had barely disappeared from view when the Land Rover laid down in the middle of the track and refused to budge. Junior reckoned it was caused by kerosene in the petrol but he did not say how it got there. Possibly a new kind of ignition control additive. A little further on the same thing happened again, but this time it was due to some heat forming malfunction burning out a spark plug. In the course of the journey to Perth we burnt out a total of eight of these necessary gadgets. In an endeavour to reduce this somewhat excessive consumption of spark plugs Junior suggested that we keep a lookout for convenient sources of water, which could be used to reduce the engine temperature.
Just south of Three Springs we spotted an enormous black tank perched on a high stand and situated in a narrow strip land between the road and the railway. As it was furnished with a king sized rubber delivery hose some 12 inches or more in diameter, its function obviously was to supply the requirements of needy train locomotives passing to and fro. Arming himself with a billy can from the Rover, Junior strode manfully forward and gave a strong and purposeful pull to a chain which descended from the top of the tank.
Brother, you should have seen what happened. With a horrible klang, like the knell of doom, and a roar like a multistage rocket leaving its launching pad, the delivery hose sprung suddenly to life and with a mighty whoosh, lets loose a veritable Niagara. Within seconds the roadside drain was a roaring torrent and smaller streams were striking out in all directions. To make matters worse it appeared that this gargantuan lavatory would never stop until the tank was empty. In desperation Junior discarded his useless billy and scaling the stand, managed to push the lever up and stem the torrent. We eventually obtained our needs from a shallow well nearby and lost no time getting on our way.
A little further on while enjoying a game of "chicken", a pastime to which Junior appears to be passionately addicted, his opponent very unsportingly whipped up a sizeable piece of gravel from the verge on to which he had been forced, and splintered our windscreen on the driver's side. Junior, preferring the protection of this opaque barrier to the chilly discomfort of an unobstructed view, carried serenely on. In the interests of self protection, Secundus and I indulged in the little mild backseat advice and direction which however only served to increase further an already highly dangerous situation. Fortunately a few miles of vibration and the occasional pothole eventually solved the problem by bringing about a complete collapse of the screen, and providing us with a 50-50 chance of survival. Without further misadventure we eventually reached our destination a little after dark.
A point of interest which arises from the light-hearted nonsense which these happy and carefree holidays has provoked, is that the middle of the year does not appear to be a propitious period to visit the mouth of the Murchison from an angler's point of view. Our first pilgrimage was made in July 1959, our second in June 1960 and our current adventure in June/July of 1961. Although the 1959 visit provided us with some splendid sport in short and infrequent bursts, it fell far below expectations, while the other two were extremely disappointing.
A. C. GULL
Copyright © 2001 Surf Casting and Angling Club of W.A. (Inc.)
Please contact us if there are any problems with this site.
This page last updated 18 September 2001.
Display of this page was updated on 21 January 2013. Contents updated as above.
