There's An Old Bridge

10 July, 2017 Filed in: ALL STORIES | Memoir

There's an old bridge on a farm where I grew up. The approaches have grown over and the deck is in a sorry state of disrepair. (Link to Google Earth Image) Every flood demolishes it further. Locals with wheat crops on both banks of the Condamine used the gravel road to get to their paddocks and bring in their harvest. When public demand for the bridge subsided, a few local farmers still needed it.

So ownership was passed to local interests on the proviso that its private status be maintained. The farmer adjacent the bridge would demonstrate this annually on a given day. He would shut the gate and set up a bench, together with thermos and lunchbox and watch for traffic and either deny access or demand a toll for crossing. In so doing the council, who was more inclined to demolish the bridge rather than maintain it, was absolved of any responsibility for its upkeep. I recall one year when my Uncle Doug had the farm, traffic over the bridge had reduced to a trickle, so he asked my dad to come down to the bridge so that he could prevent him crossing. An appropriate amount of paperwork was completed and sent to council. Uncle Mervyn with considerable advice from my civil engineer brother-in-law, built a new bridge. It was cheaper than repairing the old one so today the old bridge is a relic of a century of days gone by.

Just downstream from the bridge was one of our favourite swimming holes. One summer afternoon my older cousins and some neighbourhood friends went there to cool off. It was a delight to walk down the bank through the mosaic of carpet and other grasses. Carpet grass wasn't really a grass but a deep green ground cover that gave off a heady mint aroma when crushed. It always felt cool even when the sand was too hot for bare feet. The bad prickles didn't grow there but there were occasional tiger pear that if you were unobservant enough to stand on, you needed pliers to remove the spines. Did they hurt!

I could dog paddle a bit but not enough to save myself. That afternoon the river nearly drowned me, then it saved me. We loved playing piggy backs in the water. One of the strong swimmers would take you on their back and swim upstream cavorting and splashing about and having a great time. The big lad set me on a submerged island, shaped like a broken pillar with steep slippery edges. This was the deep black soils of the Darling Downs and the riverbed alternated with slippery clay and smooth round river stones. The current wasn't that strong but enough to undermine your footing. I expected the lad to ferry me back to safety but he had moved on to mud throwing and water fights. I had not idea how far out of my depth I was until I slipped. I probably could have got back to the others without the scare, had it not happened so quickly.

In that moment panic struck immediately. I was a skinny kid and the fresh water not so buoyant. I sank like a stick. My puppy-like flaying was no help in getting my mouth and nose above water. I called out but only took in more. Panic filled every muscle as I thought this was it. Meanwhile the current carried me to a small sandy beach at the next river bend and as my toes touched the smooth foot-sized river stones, panic gave way to an eddy of anger and gratitude. I threw myself on the sun drenched sand and waited for the adrenalin to subside. Tiny beaches often form on the inside curve of wide, shallow river bends, and sheer mud cliffs on the deep, narrow ones. Lucky for me.

In the following years most of the grand old habitat trees and all of the willows have been removed. River improvement they called it. Apparently the irrigators downstream were impatient for water. It was a continuation of land management practices that increased runoff, stripped topsoil, and dehydrated country. The lush riverine landscape has given way to heavy machinery, chemical farming more akin to mining than land management.

As a kid my dad would take me in the old green ute to watch the workmen. I liked to press the starter button to coax the old engine into life. They had a pair of Caterpillar tractors with a huge chain connecting them. They crawled through the light timber on the sandy ridge country tearing down everything in their path. Something was horribly wrong, it was too much for me to take in. I was frightened and traumatised. I sat on the edge of that old leather seat, legs to short for feet to touch the floor, and struggled to control the tears. "Why does that boy always cry when we go down the paddock?" Mum didn't know either.

The bulldozers roared on, tracks screeching and rattling, the air full of diesel, eucalyptus and green wood. I didn't have the temperament to be a farmer, not like this.