It Begins Where it Ends
The cascading water through the lock is like the sound of distant surf, almost ambient, reminding me of holidays by the beach as a kid. During the day, pelicans and the occasional runabout get as close as they dare (or are allowed) to the tumbling waters.
A weeks lay-up in a small town. It’s hard not to make it a weeks lay-around when the winds blowing a minor gale and the temperature struggles past warm-ish. Sooo..what to do? Get wood for a start. Making a fire pit out of sand is a breeze and a pity not to exploit it. Luckily there was plenty laying around and a fire in the early evening by a river, can be almost magical.
I’m just about to enter a huge water system. Not just the Darling, but a cohort of lagoons and billabongs, lakes and national parks to explore and it started only a few minutes from the campground. Thegoa Lagoon is a giant dreamtime serpent that wraps itself around the western side of Wentworth. There were three dirt tracks to the lagoon, but it was the third at the western end that delivered the best views. The first reward was that clearly, this area is a breeding ground for birds and clearly, not April. There were probably 30 nesting sites within a 30metre circle and up to 8 in a tree.
Unfortunately, no breeding no birdlife. Not to say there weren’t ANY, but it involved sitting quietly for a long time and then inching forward hoping I wouldn’t be noticed by this solitary bird taking a break in the afternoon sun.
It was a very quiet and still experience. The wind had disappeared and a cloudless blue interrupted only by an ancient Tiger Moth making occasional lazy loops in the sky above.
The campground had been pretty much deserted for the first four days, but filled up on the fifth. I befriended a lovely couple, James and Maria and we shared a couple of campfires on the weekend. It was James that revealed the shocking truth about this surge in RV’s. “The Mexicans are heading north for the winter” he whispered furtively. Oh dear God~!! I’m not one of THEM…or am I? The Victorian number plate on the back of the van was NOT helping. Those withering looks from locals in small country towns, I can feel their piercing stare even now. “Bloody Mexican” they’ll curse under their breath. I have to create a point of difference. I’ll have to drink my Carlton Dry out of a paper bag. Luckily AFL can still be discussed in mixed company, thanks to the Sydney Swans. I guess there’ll be no poncho wearing this winter.
On the spur of the moment, I decided to head to Pooncarrie in the afternoon, rather than wait till the following morning. After all, it was only 115klm and I’d have the sun behind me. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to visit Mungo National Park however. There was a quicker way to get there, but I was committed to the Darling River run. Seventy kilometres in, I was regretting my choice. The Darling River was no more than a tree line in the distance, not hugging the Pooncarie Road as I had imagined.
Suddenly, a sign loomed up on the left. A route to Mungo National Park was on my right and my disappointment turned to joy in an instant. A saving of 85klm and petrol stations thin on the ground, no-one had to ask twice. I edged onto Top Hut Road, and pulled up to let some air out of the tyres. Sixty-five kilometers of dirt road lay ahead, and another hundred back to Pooncarrie on the round trip out. The road was in excellent condition and I could barrel along at an easy 60klm. Finally as the sun started to dip, I bridged the last ridge, and in the distance I could just make out the ghost of Lake Mungo and the Great Walls of China. Time to explore!
