Standing on the banks of the Goobarragandra River, diminished by boulders the size of fire engines that have calved like icebergs from sheer cliffs, there’s an Alice-in-Wonderland vibe, a megalithic landscape appearing to wide eyes. We are hastily drawn mini stick figures, a grammatical smudge in the book of life in this big-sky big-river Country.
This prehistoric valley in the heart of the High Country is a tributary of land, water and sky, coursing from the Snowy Mountains to the Murrumbidgee and Goodradigbee River systems, and carrying the stories of centuries as rivulets of time.
Pocked by mining leases, logging scars, square-cut plantations, irrigation plants, camouflaged big-fish enthusiasts and a surprising number of cycle tourists, there is undeniable beauty in the land’s resistance to human utilisation. Like fleas on a working dog, these irritations are quickly forgotten, atomic in scale in a continental realm.
While there is a symbiosis between man and ‘the uncontained wild’, the terms are deftly defined by the land itself – the all-powerful roar of Wiradjiri Country. Pounding water sluices through, an artery of frantic flow, pulsing, reaching, an ancient rhythm that carves pathways both physical and subliminal.
There is a dizzying hierarchy of life: fish flick through the clear waters, crays snap between submerged rocks, and tiny fairy wrens swoop to drink in electric-blue flurries. High above, gan-gans, King parrots and Nigel, a solitary Yellow-Tail, are vigilant observers, bright eyes alert for movement, while at the river’s edge, swamp gums, apple box, black wattle and manna gums trail limbs in the clear water, as if caressing it.
It is mesmerising, a solace to burnt-out fight-or-flight systems in need of a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down. Born of meltwaters, the Goobarragandra is icily fresh, but beneath the curling water-splayed light and amid rumbling stones, there is a rich sense of peace, as if the maelstrom of sound and spray cancels out the thrumming in my mind.
Etched in ancient desire lines, this valley was a meeting place (likely named for the red stone and ochre (gubarr) that paints the landscape) and a conduit to the Snowy Mountains for the Wiradjuri, Wolgalu and Ngunnawal people. People have been gathering here for thousands of years, slung in the river’s liminal net to eat, drink, hunt, live and connect with each other – and Country.
And at the heart of this river story are tasty moths…
Bogong moths (Argyrotaenia infusa) migrate up to 1,000 kilometres to the cool caves of Alpine Country each spring, where billions of them lie dormant until after summer, when it is cool enough to return. It is believed the moths can sense the Earth’s magnetic field and use it to steer their migratory flights.
What is unequivocally known by Wiradjuri, Wolgalu and Ngunnawal peoples is that the moths are delicious.
Considered an ample food source due to their large numbers and high fat content, Bogong moths can be roasted over hot ashes. Legs and wings flicked off, the bodies are munched whole or ‘mashed into moth meat cakes‘, which are said to have a nutty taste, ‘somewhere between a walnut and a pecan’.
So it makes sense that between November and February, this valley would have been as busy as Wolli Creek Woollies on Christmas Eve, a steady thrum of activity, all eyes on the prize, a highway that led to the moth pantries of the Snowy Mountains, Brindabella Ranges and Bogong Peaks.
Some oral histories describe only the men venturing higher into the mountains to hunt moths, scraping them from rock fissures in the cave walls. This ties in with local stories of how women would go some of the way before ‘camping on the birthing rock where the rivers meet’, at the confluence of the Goobarragandra and Bahloo (Moon) River. Here, they would create a birthing space, gather and prepare grasses and yams for the feast, and take part in women’s business before meeting the rest of the mob to eat and celebrate the tasty haul.
I like to think of the ladies reclining at the river, awaiting their fast-food delivery, cooling hot skin and resting swim-weary limbs on rocks still warm from the sun, as we do now…
There is powerful dreaming here, of moths and river creation stories, of Gadi, the snake spirit of Bunyip Gully, and goanna, emu and eaglehawk ancestors. Each night, beneath a phalanx of stars, my dreams course with the power of the river, journeying, reaching for more, an endless kaleidoscope of light, colour and sound. And I wake up hungry.
The Cowboy is convinced there is tractor dreaming here, too.
Specifically, a staid 50s Massey Ferguson, soon to be liberated from a long dormancy. She has no brakes, but rumbles along slowly enough that he is content to ride her like an old nag, patting her flanks affectionately each time he mounts her. And, despite it taking 47.5 hours of tense mechanical negotiation with a block hammer and two cans of Start You Bastard to get her running, the joy of tractor dreaming is a rich history that will live on through the generations, a tall tale to be shared around the fire.
In this ancient firmament between water and sky, life is slower, steadier, richer. There is a languid pace, hours loosely stretched and slack with misuse, time ticking past at a resting heart rate, a horizon that stretches to the sky, surging with space to breathe.
We eat, drink, fish, swim and repeat, lounging like freshwater seals in the cool depths, watching the clouds from beneath the surface, and letting our minds wander, beholden to the river. Always the river.
Well, all except those who have chosen Massey Ferguson as their new god.
From the Sports Desk 