26/04/26 Pooncarie to Bush Camp

Morning in Pooncarrie.

Rain moths spending their short adult lives in fruitless combat with the lights on the ablutions block in Pooncarie.

You wouldn't believe it from the photos I've shown of the Darling, but the paddle steamer trade extended well up this stretch of river, and the Pooncarrie wharf was considered flood-proof due to being built on two levels and therefore accommodating large variations in river flow.

The grey nomads offered me extra water as I left the campground, careful not to step on any dead/dying rain moths. I literally had nowhere left to store 500ml of water, so I stored it in my stomach and my kidneys will thank me for it I'm sure.

I stopped off at the General Store where I bought a salad roll to eat as a treat at lunch time. The thought crossed my mind that I should ask that beetroot be witheld from the roll, but I did not act on it. Instead I took my salad roll, stuffed it into my bag which was jammed under the bungees on the back of my bike because the front basket was full of extra water, and rolled off up the road.

It was nice to be on the bitumen. Without having to concentrate on the road surface I could look around me a little bit more.

Spinefix wearing fuzzy seed caps.

I saw goats. Goats were the theme of the day. There were big goats, little goats, and in-between goats. There were long-haired andshort-haired goats, goats of all shades of black and white and grey and brown. Some of the goats were behind fences and others were roaming out over the road. All of them ran away very quickly when they saw me. I tried to get photos and was spectacularly unsuccessful

I didn't know if the goats were feral or domestic, but I assumed both. In places the fences were woefully inadequate, the goats treating them merely as an opportunity to display athleticism and agility. They went through and under the fences with contortionate ease. They leapt over fences in anti-gravity arabesques. They kept me entertained as the kilometres rolled past.

Before I knew it I had reached the boundary between the Wentworth and Central Darling Shires. I took photos of the road, because 30 years of marriage to a roads engineer had trained me to notice the changes between one local authority and the next, and I gift you this knowledge free of charge.

Oh the horror! Inconsistent line marking!

Eventually I found a nice leaning tree, got out my chair, and settled in to enjoy my salad roll. During the morning the beetroot had done its work and thoroughly lined the inside of my bag, as well as quite soggifying my sandwich. It tasted good though, even if I'm pretty sure I ate a few flies in the messy mix and now everything in the bag was pink and smelled of beetroot.

Scene of beetroot crimes against sandwiches.

At 60km the river curled back to meet the road, with inviting little tracks waiting to be explored. I discovered the Karoola Reserve which was immediately evident as my new home for the night.

This will do.

The goats were not amused. Despite doing my best to set up away from animal pathways I had obviously impinged on their territory. A goat huddle formed up on the hill and goat conversations were had. What to do about the strange pink thing that had settled into their spot? There was bleating and brawling, and the billygoat coughed alarm.

I did nothing, and one by one their little goat brains switched off and they wandered away to find something to eat. I watched the sun set and took photos of fantastic roots on the river banks. Three teenage goats turned up late and spent some time bleating forlornly for the family that should have been there, before their little brains turned off too and off they went.

Human shapes in the tree roots.

I went to bed. The moon was bright: I'll have to wake up early if I want to see the stars.