The Wakool River is at last in full flow, but signs of the recent drought are defiant. Tired towns. Creeks like collapsed arteries. Weeds that only thrive in thirsty river beds. The bald red expanses sport new growth of fuzzy green lanugo that looks as though it could be pulled off, like Doug Bollinger’s rug, by the first spritely dust devil.

Their catastrophe has taken the form of a gentle crumpling, a gradual overload—the sort of disaster that escapes the notice of urban folk, hardhearted from all that urbane city life.

It’s hard to imagine how these communities could survive the gloom without a will of iron and vigorous irony. At the turnoff to Wakool, population 250, a bold blue sign declares “SHOPPING CENTRE”. There is no shopping centre. If you want to shop, you go to Barham, a comparative metropolis of 1200, or Koondrook. Or for a big day out, Echuca or Deniliquin.

From that turnoff, you see a few houses on the right and silos, railroad tracks and scrub on the left. Pokies peek apologetically through the RSL’s door. A boarded up True Value store lies next to a coffee shop that died of the same disease.

Once, there were many excuses to congregate. A football club was just one. Now the tennis, bowling and cricket clubs are no more. A near-empty dance hall is a depressing place. Footy’s the heartbeat of the town; a reason. In 2008 when the fishing comp was cancelled, it hurt. The club nearly went under.

Once, towns along the Murray and its tributaries were testimony to the miracle of irrigation. Now bankrupt farmers sell their water—you only get water when you pay for it— sell their farms and make their despondent way down the highway.

Wakool’s original purposes have been stripped away. Things are sparse. There are no restaurants or coffee shops to huddle in. But the remnants of better days, when the silos were full of rice and the abattoir teemed with stock, are durable. Though they are rent on many levels when people leave, those who stay under the great invisible roof of a small town enjoy a certainty and sense of belonging. Wakool draws from deep wells. Industry and kindness spring spontaneously from their desperation, just as surely as music leaps from the hearts of anguished New Orleans folk.

Only a new purpose will ensure a town survives today’s world. Everything is about finding ways to recycle; to generate life and movement. Three little annual events—the Wakool fishing classic, the fair and the sheep races—keep the football club going, and the 40-student, one-teacher primary school, and the two fire trucks that keep local volunteers busy in two States. And life in-between.

As long as the footy club remains vibrant, it creates other movement; other life. But it’s hard to muster men. It costs $100,000 a year to run the club with a bare-bones budget, mostly-unpaid players, and volunteers, and they travel long distances to play.

To import players takes money, but spending has its upside. Shane Harvey, de-listed from North Melbourne, came at someone’s invitation. They won a premiership, and enjoyed feeling the life hum back through the township.

You can sense the need to hang onto such innocence in a world that threatens to lay them waste. June Lowry arrived in 1947. “My sons played in two grand finals and won”, she says with toneless pride. “That was a pretty exciting sort of time for us.”

No matter what purpose Wakool finds for itself, the river is a big player. No river, no life. Raft races, triathlons, swimming, all generate cohesion and cash. The iconic Murray cod, the largest exclusively freshwater fish in Australia—one of the biggest in the world—has always been crucial for food, sport and profit.

The fishing club holds raffles to purchase fingerlings. Families go out, release them; keep an eye on them as they congregate quietly in the river weeds waiting to spawn, staying clear of the bullying, fertile carp that trawl turbid waters after drought. The locals know the cod’s cycles. They love putting back into the precious river. And the footy club.

When the river nearly died of thirst, they had a picnic on the parched bed and hung a sign from a nearby tree: “The Last Supper”. Then they somehow fastened the table and umbrella to the river’s bottom. When levels drop, the umbrella pokes its blue and white head through the surface of the gently-flowing river, reminding everyone of what has been and what will be again. You either mock fate, or you capitulate and leave.

*

Volunteerism is the backbone. No-one gets a cracker, or expects it. The payoff is survival. This little event has 95 sponsors! Twelve sheep, two bullocks, rissoles and sausages are donated by the local butcher and farmers. Fridges, generators, shuttles, all donated. Books, stickers and DVDs keep the kids interested. Our Community Cares put in $1500. Safeway contributed bread and water. Sponsors come from Melbourne, Cobram, Shepparton, even Warrnambool.

It’s a generous competition. Everybody gets a chance to win something, either via raffles or the many fishing categories. $60 for the weekend, and you’re eligible for the big prize, a Jabiru boat with a Mercury outboard motor, trailer and safety gear.

Anne Hamilton and her daughters Chelsea and Stacey serve at the Wakool pub. It’s the nerve centre. A table in the bistro is covered with diaries, letters, a computer and pamphlets. John, Howie, his wife Pat and others do the running around. Tomorrow Anne, Chelsea and Stacey will tag-team pub duties, combining them with duties nine kilometres away at the river bank.

The confluence of the Wakool and Yallakool is cosy and comfortable, with a village atmosphere. Marquees are erected; around 500 happy fishos arrive, tents go up; some already sit reverently over billies; boats are decked out.

The fishos put their boats in the river and will sleep a few metres away. In the morning they’ll roll out of bed into their boats, and no-one has to queue for half an hour. The police like it, because no-one goes anywhere after they’ve had a few.

Introductions begin. Trucks, generators, shuttles, refrigerators roll in. The blokes seem to think an extra 500 people next year might be too hard to manage, but Pat and June, who will tirelessly serve food all weekend, are unequivocal. “What’s another 500?”

Jason Mathers is a bush bloke: intelligent, resourceful and a natural teacher. He’ll be our host on the water. “It’s a community event and that’s just the way it has to be. It’s one of the few communities that could make it work on this scale without paying anyone.”

Sometimes they capitulate and stay. A shrivelled, toothless local comes over, smelling like a stale beer full of cigarette butts, his leathery face folded at the crease of his mouth. “Things have got bad here. I’ll shout you a beer.” He dodders off toward the grog tent, melts into the happy throng and is not seen again.

Lindsay Lashbrook, along with Jason, started the competition for the sake of the footy club. “It’s a reason for people to come back.” He’s ensured they do, securing permanent toilet facilities and concrete tanks for campers. Lindsay regulated the water in the Wakool system for 17 years for State Water.

But even with a local in charge, ideological agendas are impossible to ward off. Bureaucracy, like drought, consumes everything as it grows except itself.

Everything is a battle: Preservation versus cultivation; drinking water versus irrigation; country versus city. Howie, a local for 40 years, represents commercial fishermen to the NSW Government. “State Water and NSW Fisheries – one blames the other when someone makes mistakes.”

The Wakool comes off the Edwards, which comes off the Murray, and threads through a complex and rich system of rivers, lakes, wetlands and creeks. The Wakool-Edwards system has the best Murray cod fishing in Australia. Its deep holes offer refuge for native fish that have endured disasters natural and man-made, including disconnection from the Murray-Edwards system, and an on-and-off water policy. A couple of years ago they let fresh water into the river at the wrong time, killing most of the cod.

“The system is seen as ‘high-loss’”, says Lindsay. “It loses water to evaporation and whatnot and takes time to put back. But those fish kills created bad publicity. Now they keep the fish happy.”

The locals are sensitive to the delicacies of the river. Don’t get them started on “ferals”. They don’t need to be told how to be environmentally aware.

John’s disgust is obvious. “What they’re doing with the forests, redgum, agriculture, water, they just don’t give a damn. State and Federal – the rural areas don’t matter.” There are bans on fires, bans on clearing logs, bans on guns. Nature reserves are locked up, while wild pigs flourish like carp.

The cod are easily decimated, so there’s a push to regulate fishing. This is partly what the Wakool Classic is about. It’s a catch-and-release competition. “We’re a bit of a test case”, says Jason. “The microscope’s on us. We can’t afford one dead fish for the weekend. If it works, people will come on board.”

*

Saturday. A black plastic slide, a pump bringing the water to the top, conveys an endless cataract of kids and water into the river.

We’re on Jason’s boat. He’s a marshal. After he measures and records a catch, it’s put straight back.

When Jason arrived there were 35 dairy farmers. Now there are two. He’s no longer one of them. Now in his thirties, he’s an electrician’s apprentice. He took a different career direction so he wouldn’t have to move away. He loves fishing with a passion. As we get away from the other boats, he shows us a tattoo on the back of his shoulder—a Murray cod.

It’s faintly dreamlike, drifting past the boats on the languid river on the soft, warm air of the day, past rickety jetties and diving decks.

“Any bites?”, Jason yells. Craig and Denise, a large, affable couple, recently won Moulamein and Deniliquin. They call themselves “Team Grumpy”. They’re anything but, their look of restful relish like everyone else’s. The competition is serious, but too much seriousness would mar the river’s laconic mood. They chew on a box of soft lollies. Jason says, “We’ll have to confiscate that. Illegal bait. We’ll ignore that this time. Got any biscuits there? Your fish could end up a metre forty!”

A fallen log is the ideal spot for cod. Maybe even the “Wakool Horse”, which announces its presence with a deathly stillness. The fishos will be catching plenty of smaller fish, but then, as they approach a certain log, they stop getting even a touch. They know something big lurks. “People come to Wakool to catch a horse” says Jason. He admits it’s a handy legend. “Everyone’s got their legendary giant. In Moulamein, it’s Moulamein Mick.”

Ask fishos why they fish and family is the most frequent answer. Then fun; then sport. We come across Anne Hamilton’s husband, Jeff, and grandson, Reagan. Jeff’s rough and ready, cheeky: “We’ve worn out the measurer already.” It measures 50 cm. “Sixty if ya wanna lie.”

George is camouflaged in his khaki plastic canoe, leaning against a gnarled, half-submerged trunk with a couple of rods in. It looks like the best place in the world to spend a day. “Can’t strain yaself doin’ this. The only thing is I can’t fit an esky on.” He calls himself “team Yak Man”, and reckons that way he can win the team event. “It says in the rule book, maximum of two per boat.”

Jeff and Michelle seem preoccupied keeping their fidgety and quickly-tiring two year-old happy. But at least they have a roomy rig to do it in.

The bucket fills with carp and flies.

Fred and Evan share a boat, smiling with contentment. It must be the fishing. There’s little else to smile about. Their businesses dried up with the land, and now they work for someone else. Fred’s wife went out to get a degree.

The Hamiltons hold up a monster. “Looks like carp. Smells like carp. But it’s a Murray cod!” “That’s the smallest carp we’ve seen today.” I say. He looks at me half-aghast before a dry grin, “Bullshit!” The gruesome rat of the river, with its barbed whiskers and rubber-band lips, rarely fails to elicit disgust. They’re an introduced species, and only introduced people wouldn’t hold them in contempt. “Europeans might eat them”, sneered one local when I enquired as to their good.

“Ugly bastard!”, exclaims Jason. It’s 69cm long. He throws it in the bucket and dongs it with a truncheon designed for that purpose. “Better than letting them die in the bottom of the bucket.” Its unseeing eyes roll around. Carp don’t die easily.

Then we get the first “mystery catch”—a large turtle. Once, the mystery prize winner caught his own dog. “Bloke was using cheese as bait. His mate made a cast and the dog went for the cheese. They had to take him to the vet at Barham.”

We bounce jauntily from one boat to another. Cockatoos burst from trees and wood ducks take flight from the Wakool’s surface. The sounds of industry skip across the river as women on the bank throw themselves into making sandwiches, wrapping potatoes, registering competitors, registering catches.

I lift an inert cod out of the length of half PVC pipe used as a measure, hold it under the belly, lower it into the river and enjoy feeling the life hum back through it; feeling it slip powerfully away. Jason never gets over that feeling. “Unreal isn’t it?

He can’t resist some mention of the hippo in the river. “And they’re great eating, too”, he says with a wink.

Word quickly spreads along the river as to what bait works. Someone throws us a big white bolt of flesh—the secret, for him, of this morning’s success: a bardy grub. Yabbies are getting bites. Some are swearing by cheese.

George again: “Couldn’t get us a beer from somewhere could ya? I’m a bit thirsty.” We approach a couple of busy lure casters, who oblige instantly with a two cans.

A yabbie scuttles across the boat’s bottom, and Jason picks it up. “Most people hang them by the tail and he’ll trawl around and do his natural thing.” He breaks its head off, shells it and, with its legs still flailing grotesquely, places it on the hook so it looks like spider bait. “This is how I do it.”

Lure fishing differs from live bait fishing, and you see it on the river. Anglers using live bait are either in various attitudes of repose or alert and active. Lure fishermen are always active, choosing lures, standing in their boats, irritating the cod out of hiding places. Or trolling—putting up the river ¬and letting the lure do its work.

The closer they cast to a log, the greater their chance of landing a cod, so the ability to cast is a matter of pride. Some can land a casting plug in a polystyrene cup from 20 metres.

Some lures glide gracefully; some rise and dip with machine-gun rapidity, like frenetic little dolphins. Chandelier-like spinner baits twirl prettily; topwater plugs skim the surface, froglike.

“Lures catch fishermen”, laughs Jason. “We walk into a tackle shop and it’s like a kid in a lolly shop. You always walk out with two or three.”

His shovel-nosed lure undulating, Jason says, “You get a lure to act like a sick fish. Cast, quick pull, let it float. Swim, die off. Even if a cod’s not hungry, it’s like that coffee and after-dinner mint: ‘I’m just gunna have one’. Some days they’ll just bite. Others, you have to work at it.” Nobody knows why certain lures work at certain times. That’s why most fishos wish they could be a fish for a day.

Some lures have three or four hooks. Cod are territorial, and won’t always bite the hook. Instead, they’ll give it a nudge. A couple of blokes pull the biggest cod so far: 60 cm. Having wrecked the hook, it gets foul-hooked on the rear one. “It’s not uncommon for a hook as thick as the tip of this rod to be straightened by a cod.”

A tall, expressionless bloke, bogan-cool in a bushman’s hat, mullet, flanellette shirt and sunnies, is using a spinner bait. When Jason asks for a closer look, he gives a casual back-handed flick. The bait sails 10 metres and lands obediently in Jason’s lap. “Seem to be the go”, says the sharpshooter. “Dunno why. They look like nothing in the water. Get the yellow belly and cod.” A minute later, as if to demonstrate, he pulls in a 60 cm cod, with a fight. Cod go harder when they’re foul-hooked.

Someone hooks a bream—a protected species. The fish lets out soft grunts of distress, it’s pink eyes gaping. “Off ya go, fella”, he says tenderly.

*

A local singer provides lively entertainment as the sun sets. The eating contest is won by a bloke in a long platinum wig named Fruitbat, who consumes chilli pickled onions, bardy grubs, a malodorous block of blue vein and raw sheep’s brains. It’s that kind of night. Stories are swapped, baits compared.

Six-thirty Sunday. The tents harbour headaches. The air is filled with the sour smoulder of logs and the sharp scent of two-stroke. A few keen fishos are out. The shore is sprinkled with families. The others won’t emerge for a while.

Toward lunchtime, the biggest cod of the weekend, 63 cm, is caught from the shore on a quiet little bend, gnarled with roots and chocked with fallen logs, inaccessible to boats. It was dry last year. Ray gives a satisfied shrug at the news. “Yeah. Sittin’ up there in their $30,000 boats, flyin’ up and down with thousand dollar reels. Fish come down here for a spell, I reckon.”

That afternoon a truck full of goodies, and the boat, are given away. Ray wins a cooling motor. Reagan gets a prize for his carp.

Stale beer and cigarette butts. A folded face. “What paper you write for?” he asks, as though sent to find out. I tell him. “Well, tell ‘em things have got hard here.” He reels off for the beer tent.

The denizens of Wakool are custodians of a vanishing spirit. Every year they catch a little of it, enjoy feeling the life hum back through it, and release it. We should wish them all the best.

Published in Inside Sport, April 2010